Right Now
by laughingwarrior
Summary: Juice/OFC. Sequel to Make Me Right. If you haven't read that one, you might be pretty lost here-this one picks up right where that one leaves off. Juice tries to make it work with Frank, despite all kinds of obstacles. That's a hard M rating, kids-lots of lemons and biker language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So my "break" didn't even last a week. I'm obsessed, I tell you. Obsessed! I did, however, catch up on some reading. Not as much as I wanted to, but as I say—obsessed!

This is the sequel to Make Me Right. If you haven't read that one, you will probably be lost; we're picking up a few weeks after that one ended, right in the middle of some turmoil.

Where we left Juice and Frank: Worried about her safety, with violence around the club at a fever pitch, Juice has sent Frank, his old lady, away to live in San Francisco and pursue a career in art. To say that she didn't want to go is to understate severely.

Frank? Not the world's most level-headed individual.

As per what has become my habit, I'm providing a "soundtrack" for every chapter—a song or two that resonates for me with the developments in the chapter. I use music to help me get into my characters. The primary genre for the Juice/Frank pairing is punk, with a soupçon of ska, grunge, industrial, etc. And the occasional ballad, when that's simply all that will do.

A big thanks to **ozzysgirl**and **Simone Santos** for giving me great early feedback on this first chapter—and to the freak circle, as always, for keeping it freaky with me. XOXO

Oh, and, we're getting right to some mature content here in CH1, so, you know, you've been warned.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. Everything else is mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1:  
**"Rat Race," The Specials

"Frank, a shipment for the Evangeline show is coming in after closing. Special delivery. I need you to stay and handle that for me."

Frank sighed and looked over the laptop on which she was entering inventory data. "Martin, I told you yesterday that I needed to leave by close tonight. I'm having dinner with Elizabeth and whatever fancy-pants people she's got me on display for this time."

Elizabeth Demerest was her patron, providing her an apartment in the city and dragging her around to meet rich people who liked to consider themselves connoisseurs of fine art. Honestly, Frank would rather hang out in the quiet of the gallery after closing and wait for the shipment. But it would cause a lot of grief that she wasn't in the mood for. An extremely wealthy woman herself, a childless widow, Elizabeth did not cotton to her plans being thwarted. In Frank's humble opinion, the 68-year-old Mrs. F. Wainwright Demerest was a spoiled brat.

But she was a spoiled brat who was paying Frank's way, and Frank was therefore trying to learn how to be pleasant to people she didn't like. It wasn't easy. Frank preferred to be prickly, even with people she _did_ like.

Martin smiled. "'Fancy pants people,' Frank? You mean the kind of people who have the resources to spend several thousands of dollars on the work of an untested new artist? I'll stay for the delivery. You should leave early, so you have a chance to dress _appropriately_ for your event this evening." He gave her current ensemble a pointed look.

She glanced down at herself. She was wearing her favorite shiny blue Doc boots, tights with pink and black horizontal stripes, a tight black knit miniskirt, a plain neon green tee, and a vintage white bowling shirt, with a huge roaring lion's head embroidered in gold thread on the back and her own name coincidentally embroidered on the breast. "Appropriate" wasn't generally something she was thinking about when she selected her clothes.

And—bonus—it kept Martin from trying to get her to work sales in the gallery. Even though she would make more money selling than she did doing administrative crap in back, she did _not_ have the personality to schmooze. Especially not sales schmooze. At Level Up, the comics and game shop she and her brother, Garrett, owned in Charming, the only people who ever really came in were the freak and geek crowd—her peeps. That kind of retail selling she could do. But here at the Hahn-Friedman gallery, in the arty SoMa neighborhood of San Francisco, the clientele was well-heeled and high-browed. Not her peeps at all.

Martin had gasped in horror when she'd arrived and he'd seen her hair. She'd kept the bottom part of her scalp shaved for years—she had ink on the back of her head that she liked to be visible—and she'd favored unusual hair colors for years as well. But her hair had been long and silky otherwise, until a few days before she'd moved away from Charming. Then she'd lopped off her pony, leaving a short, choppily uneven mop. It was almost naturally colored, though—as close to her natural strawberry blonde as she thought she could get.

Martin and his partner in all things, Claude Friedman, had taken her shopping almost as soon as she'd arrived in the city, making sure she had _appropriate_ attire for the various events she'd need to attend as they and Mrs. Demerest dragged her around San Francisco like a prize poodle. They'd also taken her to a salon. It was like her own little version of a TV makeover show: Queer Eye for the Mostly Straight Punk Chick.

Luckily, Martin and Claude were pretty cool, overall, and she thought Martin, at least, dug her style a little, as primped and prim as he was himself. So she'd come out of the chichi salon with a $300 cut and style that was spiky and punk. And the "appropriate" clothes still had something of an edge. Elizabeth was put off at first, but she also liked that her new pet had a tendency to bite a little, so by the end of the first dinner, she'd decided to describe Frank—whom she fucking _insisted_ on calling Frances, a name Frank despised—with an airy little wave and a "oh, you know, she's _such_ a little artist."

Frank fucking hated all of it. She fucking hated her free little shoebox of an apartment. She fucking hated filling out Excel spreadsheets all day. She fucking hated the city. She fucking hated the monumental pretentiousness of the art community. She fucking hated the other artists she'd met. She fucking hated all of it.

She missed her life in Charming. She missed Garrett and his fiancée, Marnie. She missed her man, if that's what he still was. Fuck, she missed him. But Juice didn't want her there. He'd sent her away. It had been six weeks, and he hadn't come to see her once.

* * *

"Did you get your package yet, baby?" Juice was positively beaming at her, his wide, unbelievably sexy smile at full wattage.

Frank grinned at his face filling the screen on her Mac. Skype was what their relationship was anymore. She held up a box. "Um, actually, I think I got _your _package."

He'd sent her a custom-made dildo. Of his own cock and balls. She guessed it paid to have connections in the porn and "companionator" industries. She pulled the dildo out of the box and waved it at the camera.

Juice chortled and clapped, like a kid getting a new toy. "What do you think?"

She smiled. "I think you're a freak. But I like freaks. It's cool."

His smile shifted into something else. "Use it for me, baby. I want to see you use it. I want to be inside you. I want to fuck you so hard."

Their _whole_ relationship happened on Skype. So she got up from her desk chair and rolled it aside so he could see her take her clothes off. Then she lay down on her futon.

Juice had stripped and was lying on his bed, his hand around his cock. His laptop was obviously on the bed next to him. "Bring me closer, baby. I want to really see." She got up and brought her Mac over to set it on the futon. She lay propped up on a stack of pillows, the Mac between her legs.

"Oh, yeah. Oh, damn, baby, I miss that." He was stroking himself; she could see his hips flexing with every pull. She put the dildo in her mouth first, licking and sucking as she would if he were with her.

She could hear Juice amping up. "Fuck, Frank. Fuck, I wish that was really me. Touch yourself with it. I want to see me all over you."

She smiled and flicked her tongue over the tip of the dildo one more time; 100 miles away, he groaned as if he'd felt that. Then she slowly drew his cock down her torso, from her throat over her left breast, flicking back and forth over the pierced nipple with a little moan, then across and around her right, circling the nipple but not going over it.

"Wait. Wait. Baby, what did you do?" He finally noticed. She'd done it a week ago. They'd had Skype sex five times in that week. "You got the other one done?"

"Yeah—last week. Way to be observant, asshole."

"Sorry, baby. It's hard to see everything from here. Can you bring me closer so I can take a look?"

She was feeling pretty irritated by this whole half-satisfying enterprise. She felt like his errand girl—go here, do that, move there. "Examine my new nipple piercing or watch me fuck myself with your fake cock. Make your choice."

He stopped yanking on himself and sat up, picking his laptop up to bring his face to the camera. "Frank? You okay?"

She guessed she'd snapped. "Yeah, I'm fine. Not having a great week, but it's fine. Let's get with this."

His wrinkled his brow. "You sure?"

She responded by shoving the dildo in and fucking herself hard. With her other hand, she grabbed the ring in her left, not sore, nipple and pulled. She moaned and arched back. Once it was warm and wet in her, the dildo really did feel a lot like Juice. It felt great, and she could feel the orgasm gathering low in her belly, but it also made her sad. It made her miss him even more.

She looked at down at her Mac. He was still holding his laptop up to his face, but she could tell he was doing it one-handed, jacking himself off with the other, because the camera was shaking rhythmically. His eyes were at half mast; he was panting. "Fuck yeah, baby. Jesus, you're so hot. Yeah, yeah, yeahyeahyeah. _Fuck._"

He tensed and almost dropped his laptop as he came. When he settled and she had his attention again, she let go of her nipple and rubbed her clit as she pounded the dildo deep into herself. She moaned and curled up as she came.

She had a huge lump in her throat. She stayed curled up, the dildo still inside her, until she could force the lump back down. She did not fucking cry.

"Baby? Frank? You okay?"

She cleared her throat and sat up, pulling his fake cock out of her as she did. "Yeah, fine. You like that?"

"Fuck, that was hot. Wish it was really me, though. I miss you like crazy, baby."

"Only four more days." He was coming on Friday to spend the weekend.

He didn't say anything, and Frank's stomach churned. He'd already cancelled on three—_fucking three_—visits. Club shit. Always fucking club shit. It was coming up on two months since they'd seen each other in person. Since she'd left. Since he'd sent her away. She'd ended up stuck spending Thanksgiving at fucking Elizabeth's fucking mansion because he'd bailed on her last week. "Juice? You're coming Friday, right?"

"I love you, Frank. Always. God, it kills me to do this again . . ."

She slammed her Mac shut.

* * *

Alone on the weekend _again_, she headed out on Saturday to the Cow Palace for the Body Art Expo, a huge convention. Toad had a booth there, as did his friend Siobhan, a piercer. Frank was going to the San Francisco Opera as Elizabeth's trained pooch on Tuesday night, and she had big plans for her look. She'd been hoping to bring Juice with her today.

Toad and Siobhan were set up side by side. Toad grabbed her and pulled her up off her feet, squeezing her so hard her back cracked. "Little Frank! I'm so glad you showed! How you been, sweets? City treating you good?"

She kissed his huge cheek. Toad was not a small guy. Over six feet, probably close to 300 pounds. Mostly muscle, and you did _not_ want to fuck with him, but he looked a lot like a toad. He was a serious punk badass, with a huge, spiky Mohawk, stretched lobes and myriad other piercings, lots of ink, and what looked at first blush like a bad attitude. He was a big cuddle bear, though, if you knew him and he liked you.

He was one of Frank's favorite people. He was also one of the best, most celebrated tattooers in Northern California.

"I've been okay, T. City's the city, you know. Different. Weird."

"Little like you, then." He grinned at her.

She laughed. "Yeah, that's fair."

"You got your sketch?"

Frank nodded and pulled a folder out of her canvas bag. "On my chest, right down the middle."

He eyed the sketch appreciatively. Then, looking her up and down, Toad said, "Little bit, you got _no_ meat on you. This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker. You sure?"

She laughed. "Dude, please. I'm sure."

"Damn, girl. You're like Lawrence of Arabia."

She stood akimbo, giving him a look. "Yeah, T. I got no idea what that means."

"One of these days, you need to watch a movie that doesn't have a robot or an elf in it. It means you're tough." He gestured to the screened area at the back of his booth. "You ready to get started?"

"Let's do this." She waved at Siobhan as she went back and got a blown kiss in return.

* * *

Toad worked on her for almost four hours. When he was done, she had a cool blackwork tat on her breastbone, from about an inch below her clavicle to the bottom of her ribcage, down the center between her breasts. The intricate design was hers, inspired by traditional mehndi, or henna tattoos. Toad worked freehand, following her sketch.

It being an expo, Toad had a camera on her and put it up on monitors in his booth. Most tats were done publically at expos, but those done in more "intimate" areas of the body were screened. Frank had a choice, considering the location of hers; she'd chosen the screen. Not really an exhibitionist. The focus of the camera was tight, not showing anything she didn't want public.

As he was bandaging her, they heard someone asking for him at the front of the booth. Frank recognized the voice. It was distinctive, gruff and gravelly, and she knew she knew it. But she couldn't place it right away. Toad got a big grin on his face and finished the bandage, leaving her to get her shirt back on.

As he went around the screen, Toad called out, "Hap! My man! How you been?" Frank heard the heavy slapping sounds of a big, macho, man hug.

Fuck. Now she knew why she recognized the voice. Happy. A Son. One of Juice's brothers.

Interesting that _Happy_ could get away from Charming while Juice could not.

She thought about hiding behind the screen, but Toad and Happy were getting into a real discussion, so it wasn't like he was going to be moving on soon. Fuck it. She stepped around the screen, still buttoning up her top.

Happy stopped talking when he saw her. Looking right at the bandage on her chest, he said, "Hey, little girl. Didn't think to be seein' you here."

"Hey, Happy. How are ya?"

He was still looking at her chest. If she had boobs to speak of, she might think he was ogling her, but she knew he was looking at the bandage, probably thinking about what she'd exposed to Toad to get ink there. "I'm good." He nodded at her. "Got some new ink, looks like." He looked up at the monitor. "That it? Nice work." That last he directed at Toad.

"Yep. You have a booth here? Or are you getting new ink yourself?" Happy was also a tattooer, she knew. She sucked at small talk in general, but this was crazy awkward. Happy wasn't a talker, either, and there was a big elephant sitting in the middle of their conversation.

"Just seeing friends. Lot of these guys I only see at this expo." He looked at Toad. "You know she's old lady to one of my brothers?" Yep. That was Babar right there.

Toad's posture changed. Frank couldn't quite say what changed, but he got bigger somehow. "I met him. We got a problem, Hap?"

Happy shook his head. "Not with me, no. For topless work, though, he should've been here."

Fucking macho asshole bullshit. "Well, Happy, we can agree on that. Be seeing you. My regards to Juice." She turned and walked to Siobhan's booth.

Siobhan was just finishing a navel piercing. While Frank waited, she tried not to look back at Toad's booth, but eventually she couldn't stand it. Happy and Toad were still talking; it looked from their more relaxed stances like they'd moved on to other topics.

But Happy was still looking right at her. Jesus. Whatever.

"You sure you want to do this, too, after that ink?" Siobhan had come up behind her.

Frank turned. "Totally. I'm stoked. It's gonna look rad."

Siobhan smiled. "It so will. You want to go back?" She gestured at her screened area.

For a whole lot of reasons, and at a growing number of people, Frank was pissed. "You know what? Let's do it out here. Give you some extra publicity." She unbuttoned her shirt. Turning her back to the expo concourse, she pulled it off and held it to her very tender chest. She sat on the tattoo stool and leaned lightly on the padded rest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Happy walking to Siobhan's booth.

"You should go behind the screen, little girl. Lotta eyes out here."

"I'm good, Happy. Not your business." She knew he was the club assassin, and in any case he was intimidating as hell, but Frank was too pissed at the idea of being ditched by her man for his fucking club and then hounded by one of his so-called brothers in that club for doing something to her own fucking body to be intimidated by the black stare he was giving her now.

She could see he was surprised that she was telling him off. He stared at her for another long moment, and then he nodded and turned away.

Good. Fucking Sons. She settled in while Siobhan ran two rows of rings down her back.

Pain rarely bothered Frank. Usually she found it centering. The more stressed she was, the higher her tolerance for pain—the more she sought it out, actually. She was practically vibrating when Siobhan started, so the ten rings going through the skin on her back almost felt good. It was the same when she'd lain for hours on Toad's table, getting inked over her breastbone. Peaceful. Calming.

When she was done, Siobhan gently laced a thin red ribbon through the rings. "Okay, Frank, we're done. Want to take a look? Frank stood up and saw that they'd attracted a small crowd. This kind of piercing was still a bit on the edgy side, she guessed, even at a body art convention. She saw Happy, who was tall and stood above most in the crowd, standing at the back, watching. Jesus.

Siobhan had a standing mirror in the corner of her booth. She positioned Frank with her back to it, then held up a hand mirror. Holy shit, that was gorgeous. "It'll look better tomorrow and great by Tuesday, when the swelling is gone and it's healed up better. I don't recommend keeping them in more than a week or so, though. It's a real drag when these babies get irritated. And we should take the lacing out now, until it's not so sore. You got someone who can lace you for your big night?"

She did. She figured Martin would help, if nothing else. He got a kick out of her little rebellions.

"Can I take a picture first, though, put it up? That's my best one so far, I think. I got a little funky with the lacing—but you can do a simple crisscross, too."

Frank was getting friend rates for all this cool work, so giving Siobhan a picture for her portfolio was not a problem. "Go right for it. It's beautiful, Siobhan. Thank you."

She smiled. "You are so easy to work on. You never move. I wish everybody was so easy." She took the picture and unlaced the corset piercing, winding the ribbon carefully and placing it into a little satin bag before handing it to Frank.

She put her shirt back on. She paid Siobhan and accepted her little Hollywood kisses in farewell. Then she went back over to Toad.

He was sitting on a stool, taking a break. "Looks good, Little Frank. Fancy."

She smiled. It didn't seem like he was going to hold Happy's heat against her. "Well, I am attending the _operah_ next week. Thought I'd do it up right."

He grinned. "You, little bit, are a shit disturber." Getting serious, he asked, "That ink gonna get you in some kind of trouble?"

"Fuck, T. It's my fucking body. Sorry, though, if you took some shit."

"Sweets, I can handle myself just fine," he snorted. "Don't you worry." He nodded toward the dissipating crowd, where Happy was still standing. "You got yourself a shadow, though, looks like. You're gonna have to handle that one head on, I think."

Yeah. What the hell was up with him, anyway? Just then, Happy walked back up to the booth.

"Get a drink with me, little girl?"

"You know I have a name, right, Happy? You know what it is?"

"Frank. Get a drink with me." He eyed her appraisingly. "Maybe something to eat."

She sighed. Looked like she was going to have to do something to get him off her back. She didn't get it. She barely knew him. He'd helped get the shop up and running again after it had been shot up in some kind of Sons bullshit, but that was about it. "A drink. Then I gotta go. I have stuff to do, and it doesn't include a date with a biker twice my age."

He gave her a wry grin. He had nice dimples. "At least twice, little girl. At least that. Come on."

* * *

As it turned out, he barely talked to her. He bought her a drink at a bar across the street from the convention and tried to get her to have food, too, which she refused. He asked her a couple of questions about living in San Francisco and when she'd seen Juice. She didn't feel disposed to give him more than basic answers. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt. She had no idea why he'd even asked her to get the drink. He didn't look like he knew the answer to that himself.

Finally, he asked, "You know what it means to have that crow?" He meant the crow tattooed on her back. Juice's mark.

God. Seriously? A lecture on fidelity from one of the club freaks? Because she had the audacity to get ink on her own fucking body? No way. She looked him dead in the eye. "I do. Why are you getting in the middle here, Happy?"

He looked at her for several seconds, and then her gave her an irritated smirk. "I got no idea. No fuckin' idea at all." And that was the end of that.

So they sat there awkwardly until their drinks were done, and then they walked out onto the sidewalk. She had several blocks to walk to the BART station, and it was starting to get dark, so she was impatient to get this weird thing over with. "Well, Happy, it was a unique experience, anyway. Thanks for the drink. I'll see you around." She turned and started toward BART.

He caught up with her. "I'll get you home. Come on. You can ride bitch with me."

She hated calling it that. She was not a fucking bitch. Of course, she could be, if that's what he wanted. She had bitch all queued up. But then she thought about how sore her chest and back were, and what a suck it would be to walk to BART in the coming dark, and then walk from BART to her apartment in full dark, alone. She was pissed, but she wasn't stupid. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

He dropped her off in front of her building and said "Take care, little girl." He waited until she'd let herself in, and then he rode off.

What a weird fucking day.

* * *

The opera itself was pretty cool. _Otello_. She'd read the play in high school, so she was able to follow the plot, and the whole thing was gorgeous. But the best part of the night was watching the blood drain from Mrs. F. Wainwright Demerest's perfectly coiffed head when Frank got out of the hired car in her fancy, fuck-me shoes and her black, halter-style evening gown, with its deep décolletage, and its nonexistent back, showing ink just about everywhere, including between her boobs. And a corset piercing on her back, laced with a red satin ribbon.

That was _awesome_.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Feels weird to just dive right on in to all the angst and drama with these two, but, well, we are right in the middle of their soup. So: angst, fighting, prickliness, lemons. The usual Frank and Juice recipe.

**Trigger warning: **Frank self-harms. I realized that while I was writing Make Me Right, and there are certainly signs there (her fit while she was tripping not least among them). She had better control over it when she was in Charming. Juice sending her away to live alone in an unfamiliar city is messing with her a lot, activating her, so that they are more apparent—to Juice and to us—in this sequel.

There's no big self-harming scene in this chapter, but the first direct signs of it are here (though I would argue that the piercings and ink are coping mechanisms for her, and therefore signs themselves), so it seemed appropriate to let you know that it will come up occasionally.

(UPDATE: Just to clarify, I'm NOT suggesting that body art is itself self-harm. No way. Just that Frank might be using the centering she feels getting inked or pierced to keep her from self-harm.)

Anyway, if you've been reading my stuff, you know I'm willing to follow my characters to all the dark places. I'm trying to be better about warnings.

**Thank you** for all the reviews, follows, and faves already! So cool! I'll try to make it worth your while! I'll try to keep up my daily-ish updating pace. Being obsessive comes in handy sometimes.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. Frank and the rest of my OCs are, well, mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER 2:  
**"Head On," Pixies

The war between the Galindo and Lobo Sonora cartels had been quiet for months, ever since Happy and Tig had gotten choice intel from a Lobo LT in Indian Hills, but the Sons were still waist deep in shit. Most of it was their own, though. They were falling the fuck apart.

Juice felt like he was balancing on razor wire every day. He'd been put in charge of babysitting Clay, the disgraced ex-president, while Jax, the new president, and Bobby, his VP, put a case together against him.

Now that was over, and the club had voted Clay out. Hap had blacked out his club tats, and he'd disappeared, maybe to Ireland with the Real IRA. Whatever. Juice was hoping that things would calm down now. But he still felt insecure and at loose ends. The taint of Clay was on him, he thought, even though he'd only been spending time with him because Jax had told him to. He'd had a bad enough year as it was without the taint of Clay on him. He had too many secrets from the club, too many vulnerabilities.

And he was alone. He'd sent Frank away to protect her from the violence that kept rearing up around the club and tearing at the women and children the Sons loved. Especially the women. But Frank hated being sent away, even if she'd gone someplace to live out her dream of being an artist. She was hurt and angry, and he knew he was not making the tension between them better by staying away from her. She'd been gone almost two months, and he still hadn't gone out to see her. He'd cancelled four weeks in a row, including Thanksgiving. She was so pissed.

He just didn't feel secure enough right now even to ask if he could get the time. If Jax asked him for something, he felt like he had to be there, to set everything else aside and serve the club. Prove his loyalty. If his loyalty was in question, so was his life.

He should have just been straight with Frank and told her exactly that, but she was so sad and lonely, and he kept telling himself—and her—that he'd get out to see her. And then Jax would give him an intel job. Or there'd be a run. Or, when there wasn't a job, he'd just pussy out and not tell Jax he wanted the time.

It was more than the club keeping him away from Frank. Or it was becoming more than that. Every time he cancelled, she got more angry, more hurt. Angry Frank was a lot to handle. He was starting to feel anxious about seeing her at all. It was starting to feel like it would be easier to stay away.

Last week, Jax had sent him to Vegas to help that charter with a new security setup. When he'd cancelled on her, Frank had killed their Skype connection before he'd finished the sentence, and it had been days before she'd even returned a text. She still hadn't Skyped with him again. The end felt pretty damn nigh.

There'd been gorgeous sweetbutts all over the Vegas clubhouse, but Juice hadn't been interested. He missed Frank so fucking much. Like a physical part of him was missing—half his heart. She'd taken everything when she'd left. Everything damn thing except her own little denim kutte. He slept with it now, every night. He'd been spending most nights at the SAMCRO clubhouse, because his house was so empty without her. He'd brought her kutte with him. It still smelled of her.

Now, he was sitting at the bar in the main room of the clubhouse, his laptop open in front of him. He wasn't really working, just aimlessly hacking around, digging here and there, in places he wasn't welcome. His own version of surfing the net. Happy came into the clubhouse and poured himself a glass of Jack. He sat down next to Juice.

"Brother, you need to get to your old lady."

"What?" Juice turned, stunned and confused. That was probably one of the last sentences he'd have expected to come out of that mouth—second, perhaps, only to something like "_The Sound of Music _is my favorite movie of all time." Happy didn't pay much attention to women as people. The fairer sex fell into two categories for him: nuisance or sexual convenience. As far as Juice knew, Hap had never had a girlfriend, let alone an old lady. Hell, he didn't even seem to favor any particular girl in the club. He was an equal opportunity jerk to them all. So the idea that he had any kind of interest in Juice's relationship with Frank was . . . unsettling, to say the least.

Though he _had_ asked for intel on a woman a few months ago, and that had been pretty fucking surprising, too. And he'd been really interested a couple of weeks back, when Juice had found a review online for the same woman's music. Vivian was her name. Vivian Green.

"Saw her in the city over the weekend. Something's up, seems to me. Real skinny, getting ink she shouldn't be. Piercings, too. Looks like a fuckin' pincushion. When'd you last see her?"

Juice was still trying to get straight with the idea that he was having this conversation with the Killa, so he didn't attach any significance to the ink and piercing detail. "Uh, when she left—early October. Haven't been able to get away. But I see her on Skype."

Hap gave him a disgusted look. "I don't know what that Sky thing is, but fuck, brother. Even I know you can't leave a woman stewing that long. She's your old lady. See to her. Shithead." He drained his glass and got up.

Juice watched him go, his jaw hanging open. Ever since Happy had helped him deal with the assholes who'd raped Frank when she was in high school, the assassin had been weirdly interested in her well being. But if _Hap_ had noticed that something was off, Juice knew he needed to sack up and get his ass to San Francisco.

* * *

He cleared it with Jax, promising to stay in touch. It took him another day before he left—and Frank had ignored all of his attempts to contact her in that time—but late on Wednesday afternoon, he rode to San Francisco for the first time since she'd moved away. He hoped that staying with her for four days, if he could, might make up some for his neglect. He wondered what he'd be walking into. He was sure it wouldn't be pretty, at least not at first. She'd been icing him out now for days.

* * *

One of the beauties of riding in California was lane-splitting. The heavy traffic around San Francisco, bane to thousands—hell, millions—of drivers trapped in their cages, only added a new dimension of interest on a Harley. Smack in the middle of some of the worst rush hour traffic in the country, Juice was in the city easily within two hours.

He'd thought about going right off to the gallery where Frank worked, but he was expecting a big scene, and he figured a fight at her job wouldn't do her any favors. So he parked in front of her building. It was late afternoon. He went over and buzzed, just in case she was home already. When there was no answer, he went back to his Dyna and sat astride it, waiting and thinking.

Happy had said that she'd gotten new ink and new metal. He knew about the nipple piercing, but he was damn sure Happy hadn't seen that. She had also gotten a bar through her lower lip, though, right after she'd moved. That would have been new to Hap—but Juice was still shocked at the thought Happy would even have noticed Frank enough to know what piercings she had. And what ink? Where? Why was it a problem?

He guessed he'd find out soon enough.

He sat on his Dyna for nearly an hour, messing with his phone, before he saw her coming up the sidewalk. He saw her a minute or so before she noticed him, and he looked his fill, his heart racing. She was wearing ripped skinny jeans, cuffed over those blue Docs she loved so much. She had a red t-shirt on, maybe her old Ramones shirt; he couldn't quite tell. And she was wearing the black motorcycle jacket he'd given her the night she'd met the Sons. Her canvas bag was hanging from her shoulder. No glasses; they'd gotten her contacts when she came to the city. She had spectacular blue eyes, but he kinda missed her black horn rims. He was surprised by how many changes she'd let other people make to her here.

Damn, she was little. He'd managed to forget how tiny she was. Everybody was the same size on Skype. But she was only five feet with her boots on, barely clearing 100 pounds on a good day. The sidewalk was busy, and she looked like she might be trampled by pedestrians at any moment.

As she got closer, she still hadn't seen him, because she was looking mostly down at the sidewalk a few feet ahead of her. But he could see her. She looked sad. Alone. Too small for this big place. She looked like a lost little girl.

He'd left her on her own for weeks. Months. Fuck, he was such an asshole.

She looked up and saw him. She stopped in her tracks.

He dismounted and came onto the sidewalk; he faced her, waiting.

She stood so long without moving that Juice started to worry that she wasn't going to come to him. Finally, just as he took a step toward her, she moved, walking straight to him until she was right in front of him. Without saying a word, without even meeting his eyes, she just leaned in, pressing her forehead to his chest.

"Hey, baby." He slid his hands up her arms and over her shoulders. It felt so fucking great to be able to touch her again. He leaned down and kissed her head.

Still not saying anything, she hooked her arms around his neck and climbed onto him, wrapping her legs around his hips. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck. He crossed his arms under her little ass, holding her to him.

She was so _light_. It was nothing to hold her whole weight like this. He kissed the side of her head. There was a lump in his throat, and he felt tears building. "I missed you so much. Can we go inside?"

She nodded, still tucked against his neck. He grabbed his pack and walked them to the front door of her building.

She didn't show any signs of moving. "Baby, you want to give me your key? Or you want to open the door?"

She unhooked one arm from around his neck and reached under the flap of her bag. She dug around for a second until she came up with her keys. Still tucked into him, without looking, she sorted the ring by feel and handed it to him with the door key up.

He let them in and carried her up the flights of stairs to the third floor. There was only one key on her ring that looked like a house key, so he tried that and got her apartment door open. He carried her in and closed the door.

He dropped his pack and pulled her bag off her shoulder. Then he leaned against the door, pressing his weight into her. He shifted his arms so that he could take her face in his hands and pull her away from his neck. He wanted to see her; he wanted her to see him.

Their eyes met, her icy blues boring into his. Fuck, all he saw in them was pain. They started to sparkle a little; she blinked furiously and punched him in the shoulder.

"I fucking hate you." She punched him again. "Asshole."

"Baby, I'm sorry. I love you so much. I just couldn't get away. I couldn't."

She punched him again and then pushed sharply away and dropped her legs from around his waist. "You are such a fucking liar. Happy was here hounding me this weekend. How come he could get away and you couldn't?"

"We do different things for the club, Frank. What do you mean hounding you?"

"Getting all territorial, acting like I was out of line for living my fucking life _on my_ _own_, where you fucking put me. Fuck, you are all such DICKS!"

He reached for her; she slapped him hard with her open palm. His cheek blazed. She was a hitter, but it was rare that she actually hurt him when she hit him—mainly because she was so little. She came in for a second pass, and he grabbed her arm and put it behind her, drawing her up tight against his body. "Frank, stop. Enough. Let's talk."

Instead, she went for him with her other hand. He grabbed that one, too, and put it behind her. She was bound up in his arms, pressed against his body, struggling. "You're hurting me, asshole. Let the fuck go."

"Stop hitting, then. I'll let you go if you promise not to hit me."

"Fuck you."

He held her tighter and looked down into her face. She was fighting and furious, panting with effort and absolutely hot as hell. He leaned down and kissed her, sucking her lower lip, with its new metal bar, into his mouth. Brushing his lips over hers, he whispered, "I've missed you like crazy, Frank. It's killing me to be away from you."

She bit his upper lip, and he pulled back sharply.

"Fuck you! Don't tell me you miss me! You sent me away, asshole, and you've done nothing but fucking blow me off since!" She redoubled her struggles, and as he leaned down to increase his hold on her, she head-butted him. She gave it her all, and really clocked him—on the chin, which was all she could reach.

He let her go, rubbing at his chin. His lip was bleeding where she'd bit him. His cheek still stung. He'd been feeling buried in guilt, but now he was getting pissed, too. He grabbed her arm before she could get away, and he put her face-first against the wall. He leaned into her, his legs spread, holding hers between them, pinning her flat. "I said enough, Frank. We're not going to work anything out with you throwing a fit."

"Fuck you, asshole!" She pushed against him; her ass was against his thighs, her back against his cock. Damn, he was so turned on, and he knew she could feel it.

He put his mouth against her ear. "I sent you away to keep you safe. You know it. I love you. You know that, too. Settle down, Frank. Let's work it out." He pulled her earlobe, with all its hoops and studs, into his mouth and sucked.

She whimpered, and he felt her relax a tiny bit. She was panting; maybe it wasn't just exertion she was feeling. He let go of her lobe and kissed her neck, suckling her skin right below her ear, where he knew she was sensitive.

"God, you're such a dick." There was a lot less force in her words, and when she pushed back against him, he knew she wasn't trying to get free anymore. He let her arms go and pulled at the collar of her leather jacket. She shrugged her shoulders and helped him take it off.

He leaned back in to press kisses along her neck. At the same time, he wrapped an arm around her and pressed his hand between her thighs. She thrust into his grip. "Ah, baby. I want to fuck you so hard right now. All I can think about is how tight and wet you always are for me. I want to make you scream for me."

Still pressing her to the wall, he yanked his hoodie, kutte, and t-shirt off. Then he pulled at the hem of her t-shirt; he wanted to feel her skin on him. She reached down to help, and they pulled her shirt over her head together.

And then he stopped dead.

"Jesus, baby. What's this?" There was a red ribbon crisscrossing the lower portion of her back, looped through rows of silver hoops embedded in her skin. This must be the "pincushion" Happy saw. But what had he been doing looking up her shirt?

He strummed his fingers over the lacing; she gasped and flinched a little as the ribbon pulled on the hoops. "Sorry, baby," he muttered.

"It's okay—didn't hurt. It's a corset piercing. A special occasion thing. I'll take them out after next weekend. What do you think?"

He didn't respond right away. He had a lot of thoughts to sort through. But he set most of them aside. Truth was, it was gorgeous, and sexy beyond all comprehension. "I've never seen anything like it. It's hot as fuck. What's the special occasion?"

"Opera, last night. The real occasion was freaking Elizabeth out, though." Juice smiled. The woman who was paying Frank's way in San Francisco sounded like a real peach—Gemma, but with breeding and buckets of cash. An especially noxious combination.

He ran his fingers gently over one row of hoops and then the other. Frank writhed and gasped as he did. Fuck, he was so hot for her. He hadn't had her in two months, and she was right there, panting and writhing—wrapped in a fucking red ribbon for him, for chrissakes. He reached around to undo her jeans and pushed them and her thong down to her thighs. His slid his fingers into her from behind; she was shaved bare as always and dripping wet. She cried out when his fingers flicked over her clit.

The flat of one hand over the satin ribbon on her back, pushing her firmly against the wall, Juice wrapped his other around her and pushed in between her thighs, sliding his fingers over her wet clit and into her core. Gasping, she arched back against him, her hips flexing on his hand.

"Fuck. You're so wet." He let her ride his hand, rubbing herself against the heel of his palm, pushing herself down onto his fingers. She was moving hard and fast, panting and moaning and so hot Juice thought he'd come in his pants. He flexed his fingers inside her and moved his other hand from her back to her breast, pulling on the ring he knew so well.

That set her off. "Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!" She arched hard against him, her body gone rigid, her hips pulsing as she came. She constricted around his fingers inside her and drenched his hand.

"I love the way you come for me." He murmured it against her neck.

He had to get inside her—but those damn boots and skinny jeans. Always in his way. He didn't want to wait for her to get her boots off, so he pulled her away from the wall and pushed her over at the waist. She put her hands on the wall for balance. Yanking his belt and camo pants open, he pulled his aching cock out and shoved into her. She cried out when he did and bucked hard against him.

"JesusChristyoufeelsofuckingo odbaby," he said it all at once in a rush of breath. She was so wet and so hot and clenched so tight around him. This wasn't going to take long. He'd been jacking off like a fiend for two months, thinking of her, going crazy for her, but nothing compared to this, to being really in her. He wanted to bring her off again, but fuck, he was going to come right now.

"I can't wait, Frank, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you." He grabbed her hips and slammed into her once, twice, three times, and he was done. He pulled her up against his chest, feeling the satin ribbon on his belly, and pushed deep in, pressing her hard against the wall, grunting with the force of his orgasm. It went on forever. Fuck.

He leaned on her, still inside her, trying to catch his breath. She was panting, too, but he knew he'd gone off before she could come again. "Sorry, baby." He pulled out—she gasped loudly—and turned her around, intending to go down on her.

He froze. She had a huge new tat on her chest, right down between her breasts, throat to belly. This had to be the ink Happy was talking about. How the fuck had Happy seen this? This ink between her tits? Jesus, he'd just _fucked_ her and he hadn't seen it.

"What the fuck is that, Frank?" Stepping back, he shoved his softening cock back into his pants and buttoned up.

Following his lead, she pulled her pants up. "It's a tat, Juice. Obviously."

"Who did it? When?"

Still topless, she leaned her shoulders against the wall and crossed her arms. He saw the defiant look in her eyes, and that only made him madder.

"Toad. At the Body Art Expo over the weekend. Same place I got the corset. His friend, Siobhan, did that. She works with him in Sac."

There was so much wrong there. Toad Nelson did that big tat on his old lady's chest. He'd had his fucking hands all over her. For hours. When _he_ wasn't with her. At a fucking _convention_, in _public_. Jesus Christ!

"What the fuck were you thinking, Frank? You can't do that shit, not without me. You're my old lady!"

She came off the wall fast. "Fuck you, asshole. It's my body, and I'll do what the fuck I want with it. Maybe I'm branded, but you don't own me. And you fucking _bailed_ on me! I _wanted_ to bring you along. You were _supposed_ to be with me. So you can shove your outrage or whatever right up your _fucking_ _ass_!"

She grabbed her t-shirt off the floor and yanked it back on. "You know what? You were right to stay away. You should go. Fuck this."

Fuck—she meant it. His anger cooled immediately. "No, baby. No. I'm sorry. I'm just—it makes me jealous to think of someone else touching you, even like that. I miss you so much."

Her anger, on the other hand, was still running hot. _"Quit talking about how much you miss me! _You sent me away! You don't want me to come to Charming, you won't come here to see me. You're driving this bus, asshole. If you missed me, you'd see me. God, I wish you'd just dump me already instead of stringing me along like this. It fucking hurts. _I_ should end it. I don't know why I fucking can't. I don't know why I let you do this to me."

She started pinching her arm, hard, leaving angry red welts. He'd never seen her do that; he grabbed her hand and held it in his. "Frank, baby, I'm so sorry. Come here." He pulled her close. She resisted at first, but then she relaxed into his bare chest. "I'm here now. I love you so much, Frank. Always. I mean it—I'm never letting you go. It's you and me. I'm sorry I left you alone for so long. I want to make it right with you."

She sobbed once and caught it, pressing herself even closer.

He kissed her head. "I love you, baby. You mean everything to me." She hit him in the chest with the side of her fist; there wasn't any pop behind it. "I'm so sorry, Frank."

Then she did cry. He held her, her tears wetting his chest. She hated to cry; she almost never let herself. The pain she felt now must be huge. The pain he'd caused her.

He was the worst son of a bitch he knew.

Eventually, she quieted. She pulled away a little and traced the tat over his heart—her mark on him. He smiled and grabbed her hand, holding it to his chest. "Remember, baby? I'm branded, too. I'm yours. _Always_."

She curled her fingers over his. "Fuck, Juice. I'm so turned around. Nothing makes sense. I hate it here so much."

"That's my fault. I should have been here sooner, helped you get settled. You're better off here, Frank. Safe. You just need to let yourself find what's good here."

"You don't listen. You never listen." She looked up at him, but she'd fought herself out.

He led her to the futon and sat down with her. "I do, baby. I do listen. I know you hate it here. I know you want to come home. I wish you could. Damn, I want you home with me. But it's not safe. And you haven't given it a chance here. This is your chance to do all the things you've ever wanted. Be an artist. Experience more of the world than fucking Charming."

For a long time, she looked down at her lap. He held her hands and watched her. Finally, she sighed. "Yeah. Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **A special note of thanks to my freaks for their support yesterday! XOXO

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. The rest is mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3:  
**"Your Name Is Tattooed on My Heart," Screeching Weasel

She looked up at him. "Let's go out."

Frank was exhausted. Her always free range emotions were stampeding. She was so glad Juice was finally here, finally with her. So damn glad. She loved him so much. A huge knot in her stomach, a knot she'd lived with so constantly these past weeks that she'd almost forgotten it was there, fell loose when she saw him sitting on his bike outside her apartment.

She just wanted to crawl up on his lap and let him hold her for hours. Days.

But she was pissed and hurt and sad and lost and lonely and—and, God, every other emotion she could name, all of them careening around in her head like spooked cattle. They'd just spent—what, 30 minutes? An hour? She had no idea—at maximum intensity. Intense sex, intense fighting, intense everything. She needed to get away from it. So going out sounded like the thing to do. Get the fuck away from the stampede.

Juice put his hand on her cheek. "You want to go out? Now?"

She got up from the futon. "Most definitely." She went to her closet, pulling her t-shirt off as she walked. She bent over and unlaced her boots, toeing them off before she pulled her jeans and underwear down. She stood wearing nothing but the red ribbon, her back to Juice, and stared into her closet.

"Jesus. Frank!" Suddenly, he was right behind her, his hands on her waist, turning her around.

"What?" His look was shock. Maybe she was just too tired, but it confused her.

"Baby, don't you eat at all?" He ran his hands over her ribs, then down, hooking his thumbs over her hipbones. "God, Frank, this isn't good. You're going to make yourself sick."

Whatever. "I eat." Truth was, she knew full well she didn't eat enough. She wasn't trying to do anything weird; she just didn't think about it. She couldn't remember the last time she was actually hungry. She often just forgot about food, especially when she was stressed out. And anyway, she didn't cook, and she didn't like to eat out alone. Aside from the occasional bowl of ramen, she pretty much only ate when Elizabeth dragged her to some fancy dinner. And then she was usually too stressed to do much more than nibble.

She pushed his hands off her and turned back around to search her closet. Other than formalwear, she didn't really have anything to wear with the corset. She'd left it laced after the opera because she couldn't get it undone on her own; Martin had made the knot too tight. It had been annoying as hell to sleep in and then wear at work all day. But Martin hadn't been in, and she hadn't wanted to ask anyone else for help.

She looked over her shoulder at Juice, who was staring at her, looking worried. Oh, joy. Nanny Man was in the house. If he cared so much, he should pay some fucking attention.

"Hey, will you unlace me? I don't want to wear the ribbon right now."

He brushed his fingers between her shoulder blades. "Sure, baby." He lifted the bow and gently worked it loose. The bottom rings pulled just a bit. The piercings were still a little tender. Where Frank felt the twinge most strongly, though, was between her legs. Juice had the knot undone and was sliding the ribbon slowly through the rings. The light pain of each pull, the silky feel of the ribbon moving on her skin—she gasped and grabbed the closet doorframe.

He stopped. "Sorry—does this hurt?"

"No. Doesn't hurt." She thought maybe she was panting a little. He was still for another couple of seconds. Frank didn't look, but she got the sense that it was dawning on him that she liked what he was doing. Then he pulled very gently on a ring as the ribbon moved through it, and she moaned softly and arched her back a little.

"You like that, baby?" He pulled the ribbon through another ring.

She nodded. She was holding the doorframe now in both hands. He pulled the ribbon free of the last ring, and then he went down to his knees behind her. He kissed her lower back, right above her ass. Then he lightly sucked one of the rings into his mouth. _Holy shit_. She whimpered and pushed against him. The pulse between her legs was heavy and rhythmic.

He did the same thing to every ring in her back; then he stood behind her and kissed her neck, his arms around her, his hands cupping her breasts. He pulled on the ring in her left nipple. At the same time, he very lightly touched his thumb to the bar in her right. "Can I play with this one yet?"

That piercing was only a couple of weeks old, but it was healing well. "Go easy, but yeah." He flicked his thumb over it, and she cried out.

"Too much?"

"No—that's good. It's perfect." God, she was so hot for him.

"Who did it?" He was whispering in her ear.

_Fuck_. Was he seriously going to get jealous and territorial right now, while she could feel her wet running down her fucking thigh?

"I went to a shop in the Castro."

"Guy?" He was still pulling and flicking, his smooth and muscled bare chest pressed to her back, the lower rings catching a little on his belt. She couldn't even think clearly enough to get properly pissed.

"Not exactly."

He stopped moving. "What?"

"Fuck, Juice. It's the Castro. The piercer was transgender. I have no idea whether she was turned on by my tits or not. I didn't grab her cock to check. Can you stop being a douchebag and fuck me, please?"

He kissed her neck again, laughing against her skin. "Sorry, baby." Putting his hands around her waist, he picked her up. He carried her like that to the futon, which was still set up as a couch. He laid her on her stomach and stepped back.

She turned her head so she could see him strip. She loved his perfectly sculpted, smoothly shaved body so fucking much. Finally as naked as she, he knelt between her legs. He pushed his hand against her, sliding two fingers into her and then drawing them out and back along her cleft. She moaned and flexed.

He grabbed her hips and pulled her up as he slid his cock deep into her. He felt so good. She couldn't believe she'd thought the dildo he'd sent her actually felt like him. In fact, it was a paltry substitute for the thick, hot, rod inside her now. She was already so close—she bucked against his rhythm, driving him deeper into her with each of his thrusts. He grunted every time he hit home.

One hand flat on her back, the other on her hip, squeezing, he took control of her movements, holding her to him as he plunged into her. She could feel her orgasm heating up her joints, coiling in her belly. And then it was on her, and she was screaming her release.

"Oh, fuck, baby. Oh, yeah. God, I love to feel you coming around me. _Fuck_." He sped up, pounding into her almost violently, extending her orgasm so that she was still coming when he did.

He let her go, gently laying her flat on the futon. Instead of lying on her, as she expected and wanted, though, he sat back on his heels. They were both breathless.

She looked back at him. "You're so far away."

He smiled at her. "Don't want to hurt your back. Or your front."

Brushing his leg with her foot, she said, "If you're still, it'll be okay. I want you on me."

He nodded and came down on her, carefully, one leg on the floor, taking some of his weight. He kissed her shoulder before he rested his head on hers. "You still mad at me?"

_So_ not the time to pick that conversation back up. "I don't want to talk about that. I just want to be with you. Okay?"

"Okay, baby. I love you."

"I love you." They lay together like that for a long time. Pressed under the soothing weight of his body, Frank's emotions settled, and she finally found some real calm for a minute.

* * *

On Saturday morning, she woke up with Smeagol's big, orange cat butt in her face. "Gross, dude." She pushed him off the bed and rolled over, forgetting about the rings in her back. Ouch. Oh well.

Juice was still there, sleeping on his back, one arm over his eyes. She'd now woken up three mornings in a row with him in bed with her. Every morning she was happily surprised to remember that he was with her. He was leaving tomorrow, though. Back to Charming. Without her.

She set those thoughts aside. They'd had almost three days together, and after that rough start on Wednesday night, things had been perfect. She'd seen more of the cool parts of the city in two days and three nights with Juice than she had in the two months before it. All of her social activities had been dominated by Elizabeth and the couture set. She knew a lot about restaurants she couldn't afford, but nothing about the places people like her hung out.

She'd called the gallery Thursday morning, and Martin had given her the rest of the week off with a smile in his voice. She and Juice had wandered all over. They'd gone to the Haight, to Chinatown, even to the tourist trap of Fisherman's Wharf and Pier 39. They'd spent a whole afternoon in the City Lights bookstore, which turned out to be like three blocks from her apartment, in the same damn neighborhood. She'd bought a big stack of vinyl at Amoeba Music, too, when they were in the Haight. At night, they hunted down the best clubs. They'd danced their asses off the night before at the Elbo Room.

She'd discovered that there were a lot more people like her in San Francisco than she'd thought. They just didn't hang out at fancy-schmancy art galleries with women who owned $10,000 handbags in every color of the rainbow to match all of their pairs of $1000 shoes.

Today, she and Juice were hitting the art museums, starting with the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. She'd been to an event with Elizabeth at the Palace of Fine Arts, so she wasn't as interested in that one, but SFMOMA? She could probably spend the whole day there.

Ever the nanny, Juice had insisted that they eat at least three times every day, so she'd had an international festival of food since he'd been here: Moroccan, Thai, Chinese, Italian, French, Vietnamese, and sushi. She'd felt full for days.

Turned out the city was a lot cooler than she'd thought.

And, oh, how they'd fucked. Making up for lost time.

She sat up next to Juice and watched him sleep. The blankets shifted as she sat up, and now his chest and most of one hip was uncovered. He was so damn beautiful. She reached out and lightly traced the Sanskrit inked under his left pec. She'd been thinking of this tat when she'd designed her mehndi piece, thinking they'd complement each other.

He twitched and stirred a little at her touch, but he didn't wake. She slowly trailed one finger down his torso, savoring every firm ridge of muscle. By the time she got to his hip, his cock was at full attention and had displaced the covers even more. She smiled and shifted, settling on her knees at his hip.

She took his cock in one hand and his smooth, bare balls in the other. He stirred again, his arm coming off his face, but he still didn't wake. Leaning over, she flicked her studded tongue over his tip. He moaned. As his eyes fluttered open, she sucked him into her mouth, as far as she could take him.

He woke fully, taking in a big, loud breath and flexing his hips up, pushing deeper into her mouth. On his exhale, he sighed, "Fuck, baby, fuck," and put his hand in her hair, grabbing a handful just more than gently.

She worked him steadily, moving her tongue over him, swallowing around him, massaging his balls. He was thrusting and grunting, chanting "fuck yeah" through gritted teeth.

She picked up the pace a little, and then he lifted his head and shoulders up, groaning, "Now, now, now, oh _God_." His head dropped back to the pillow and his hips came off the bed as he spurted into her mouth, down her throat. She swallowed it all.

She eased off him slowly, gently, until he relaxed. Then she came up and lay alongside him, nesting against him, his arm around her shoulders. He was dazed and breathless.

She looked up at him. "Morning."

Laughing, he met her gaze. "Yeah. That was an epic way to wake up." He tipped her chin up and kissed her. As the kiss deepened, their tongues tangling, he started to roll and bring her under him.

She stopped him. "Wait. Do something for me first?"

"Sure, baby. What do you need?"

"Take the rings out of my back?"

His brow wrinkled. "You sure?"

"Yeah. They're only supposed to stay in for a week, anyway, and they're in my way."

"Okay." He patted her ass. "Roll over."

She did, and he straddled her hips, keeping most of his weight on his own legs. She could feel his now semi-soft cock lying on her ass. He gently pulled each ring out and set it aside. They didn't all come out without a fight, but it didn't hurt much. Mostly it itched. When they were all out, he ran his fingers over the rows of small wounds, lightly caressing. She sighed with the pleasure of an irritant removed.

"That corset was beautiful and so fucking sexy, but your back looks really sore now. Maybe don't do that again?"

She shrugged. "I liked it, and it didn't bother me to get the rings put in. I probably won't leave them in so long next time, though. They started to bug after a couple of days."

"Frank, what's going on with you? What's with the pain thing?"

Yeah, fuck that. She bucked her hips, fighting to get him off her. He let her go, shifting to sit on the bed. She sat up and pulled the blankets over her. "There's no pain thing. Nothing's going on."

"Don't get mad, baby. Come on. I'm just worried. In the two months since you got here, you've gotten your lip pierced, your nipple pierced, the corset thing, and a big new tat. On your sternum. That's a lot in a few weeks. And you really got off on me pulling the rings the other night. I've seen you pinching yourself, too, Frank. Leaving welts. What's going on?"

Jesus, he'd done a fucking inventory. "You need to shut up if you don't want me to get mad. I told you nothing's going on. There's no pain thing. Just back the fuck off."

They stared at each other for several seconds. She was daring him to start something. She might be his "old lady," whatever that meant anymore, but he'd forfeited the right to get in her business when he'd sent her away. She'd shoved all that aside so she could enjoy having him with her, but this visit was way too late. Damage done. She loved him, loved him down to her soul, but she didn't trust him anymore. He wasn't there to catch her. He wasn't there when she needed him. Even when she told him what she needed, he didn't hear her. He wasn't there for her. Nobody was.

She was on her own. Alone.

He blinked first, looking down at his hands. "Okay."

She got up. "Good. I want to go to the museum. I'm going to take a shower first. You can join me if you want."

He didn't follow right away, but as she was running the water over her head, she felt his arms wrapping around her, pulling her close.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. I claim the rest.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4:  
**"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads

"I love you, baby. Always. I'll see you Friday."

"Yep. Cool. See ya." The connection went dead. She always hung up first anymore.

Juice was worried.

He was worried about her all the time, every second. He was worried about _them_. In the almost six weeks since his first visit, he'd been back to San Francisco four times. He'd spent the week between Christmas and New Year's with her. He hadn't cancelled on her again. He was trying his best to make it up to her. And it was great. They had a great time together. She was always glad to see him, and she was open and light with him, in bed and out. Their sex was off the hook. She was wild.

And she seemed to be doing better in the city. She was settling in, finding her way. She was still too skinny, but she wasn't skeletal, like she'd been his first visit. She was going out more to do the things she enjoyed. She was painting. When he'd first seen her apartment, her easel was empty. He'd never seen it empty before. When he'd asked, she'd shrugged and said, "It all comes up shit." But the last couple of times, there'd been new canvases around and something in progress on the easel. They were dark, but they were there.

Everything seemed better. But something was wrong; he could feel it. She was holding him at a distance. Whenever he told her he was coming out, she said, "great," or "cool," or "awesome," and then changed the subject. She almost never told him she loved him.

He knew what it was. She wasn't putting any stock in his promises. She'd stopped relying on him. She didn't trust him.

She was treating him like a fuck buddy.

That was so bad.

The worst part was that he was pretty sure it was all an act. She hadn't gotten any more piercings or ink, but he'd been seeing bruises on her arms, around the insides of her elbows—the same place he'd seen her pinch herself. And last weekend, she'd had four long, deep scratches across the top of her right thigh. She'd blamed them on Smeagol, but Juice wasn't so sure. They seemed too deep and regular to be cat scratches.

He was pretty sure she was hurting herself.

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't bring it up to her. The surest way to send a visit down the toilet, into a blazing fight, with her screaming and hitting, was to push her to talk about something she didn't want to talk about.

Then again, lately, if he got near a dangerous topic, she just looked at him and walked away. Either way, he didn't know how to talk to her about it. Or about anything, really.

He was worried, but he didn't know what to do. It kept him up nights, his head buzzing. He was exhausted.

* * *

It was late. Or maybe it was early. Either way, Juice was drunk. Fucked up. Plastered. Blotto. Feeling kinda sick, now he thought of it. He shoved the bottle of Patrón to the side and put his arms on the bar, dropping his head down on them. The room tipped side to side when he moved his head so fast.

He heard Chibs behind him, sweet talking a young Crow Eater. Chibs had a daddy thing, Juice thought. The Scot preferred the barely legal girls, and he let them talk and talk before he nailed them. Weird. Not his problem. His problem right now was getting the room to stop rocking so he could get himself down the hall to the apartment, curl up with Frank's little kutte, and pass out. Damn, he was lonely without her.

He felt soft hands on his back, under his kutte. Under his shirt. _Ah, Frank. Baby._ Wait. Not Frank. Frank wasn't with him anymore. He made her go away. And, anyway, whoever these hands belonged to smelled like some kind of flower. Gardenia or hyacinth or something tropical. Heavy. Frank just smelled like . . . Frank. Or coconuts, sometimes, if she splurged on shampoo. Which she hardly ever did.

Now there were lips on his ear, and the hands had moved around to his chest, rubbing over his nipples. "Hey, Juice, sweetie. You look tired. Want me to take you to bed, tuck you in?" He felt his earlobe being sucked gently. Oh, man, it all felt so good. His cock stood up and looked around, and he leaned into the warm body beside him.

Jesus. _Jesus_. What was he doing? He sat up, and the hands fell away. He opened his eyes, trying to clear his head. Blinking his vision into focus, he saw Kneelin' Neela, a Crow Eater, glossy straight dark hair and bronze skin, huge firm tits, sitting next to him, her arm over his shoulders. "There you are, sweetie. Let Neela help you out."

He felt her hand on his crotch, rubbing his cock. He shivered.

With a force of will, he made himself climb out of the haze of tequila and think clearly. "Stop, Neela. I'm good."

She was still rubbing him. "Yeah, you are, sweetie. I can feel how good you are. So big and hard. I know how good you'll feel. I'll feel good, too. I'll make you feel so good. You know I will."

He grabbed her hand and pulled it off his cock, but not before she gave him a firm squeeze, making him thrust reflexively into her hand. She smiled and leaned in. "You know you want it, sweetie. I'm right here for the taking. Let you do what_ever _you want. I can handle what_ever_ you give me."

She really was right there, her breath warm and sweet on his face. She brushed her lips over his cheek. Juice sighed and bent his head toward her. She pressed her lips to his, her tongue flicking lightly, pushing in. He opened his mouth, and she slid her tongue against his. He groaned and put a hand on the back of her head.

The wee spot of his brain that retained some semblance of judgment squawked in horror, and Juice jumped off the bar stool. He almost fell on his ass as the room spun madly, but he reeled to the mugshot wall and held on. As soon as the floor wobbled back to a stationary position, he headed down the hall, leaving Neela and near disaster behind him.

When he got into the apartment, he locked the door.

* * *

The prepay pulled him out of his stupor. He yanked a pillow over his head, but that same small part of his brain that was paying attention grabbed him by the collar and forced him to realize that it was the prepay. He had to answer. He was still fully dressed, so he fished into his pocket and dragged it out. He answered without checking the caller.

"Yeah." He'd been passed out long enough for the hangover to start, that was damn certain.

It was Happy—who'd been in lockup in Berkeley earlier in the day. He'd called Juice then, asking for protection for the woman he'd been seeing—Vivian—who'd been badly hurt, and legal help to get him out of jail, because the cops thought Hap had hurt her.

Juice had handled all of that, but now Happy needed more. "Juice. I need two things. I need a number for Dex Landler, and I need a 20 on a meth head named Benji. Used to be the lead guitar for her band. That's all I got. I need both as fast as you can get it."

He shook off the booze and grabbed his laptop. "Yeah, okay. Give me two secs to get in. Landler, you said? Dexter, I assume. . ." it only took a few keystrokes. He gave Hap the number. "It'll take me a little longer to work up the other guy—Benji, right? I'll call you back as soon as I have it."

"Thank you, brother." Hap ended the call.

First, puking. Then coffee. Then aspirin. Then intel.

* * *

The guy Hap wanted—Benji—had stabbed Hap's girl, almost killing her. He hadn't been hard to find. People who aren't hiding are never hard to find. Most people who _are_ hiding aren't that hard to find, either. Few people are as private as they think they are. Juice had this Benji's info and 20 in just under an hour—and that included his break for projectile vomiting and about two quarts of black coffee and a handful of aspirin.

Hap waited until his girl was out of the woods, then he came back to the clubhouse to get Tig's help dealing with the guy Hap would only call "the tweaker." They were sitting at the bar talking about it. Juice said, "I'm in, too, Hap."

That caught Happy off guard, he could tell. "This is messy work, brother. Not your thing."

Hap knew Juice could get messy. He'd helped Juice torture and kill the three of the six—_six!_—men who'd dosed and raped Frank in high school. That had been very messy. The others were either out of reach or already dead, or it would have been even messier.

Juice stood firm. "I owe you, Hap. I want to help, if I can."

Tig looked curious but didn't ask. Good. Juice couldn't have cared any less if Tig was curious. He pretty much hated that asshole, brother or not.

Hap just looked at him. Then he nodded and put his hand on Juice's shoulder. "Thank you."

Benji was only one guy—skinny and frail at that—so Hap didn't need Juice for muscle. Hap and Tig were plenty of muscle for this job. Juice stood lookout and helped with cleanup. That was fine. He was still glad to help, glad for the chance to repay a debt.

He'd never seen Hap work when he was personally invested. If asked to describe him, Juice would have said two things right away: totally loyal to the club, and totally cold-blooded. Happy would do, Juice thought, literally anything for the club, without conscience, without emotion.

He'd let Juice run the plays when they went after Frank's attackers. That was Juice's personal investment—though Hap had reacted more strongly then than Juice expected.

But what he did to this Benji guy, that was very personal. Hap was enraged, his face twisted with hate. He was still clinical and careful; he had a plan and he carried it out. But he drew it out forever, wringing the most terrible screams from that skinny, sore-ridden, filthy meat sack. Even Tig turned away a couple of times.

And even with all that, the body that was left looked no worse for wear than any junkie body the cops might find on a routine patrol through rough territory.

When Hap was finished, they carted the body off to a blind alley in Oakland, not far from the tweaker's tenement apartment. Hap had OD'd him on crank, so he was just another statistic, one who'd died harder than most.

During the job, Juice had gotten a little more detail about what had happened to Hap's girl. It had nothing to do with the club. It took Juice some time to get that through his head. He'd become so used to monstrous violence related to their work with the cartel, or their beefs with other clubs, or any number of loose cannons running around aiming at the Sons that he'd all but forgotten that they didn't have a monopoly on blood and death. Being away from the Sons didn't guarantee safety. Safer, yes. But not definitely safe. Suddenly, he needed to see Frank, touch her, make sure she was okay.

Though it was late when they got back to the clubhouse, and though she wasn't expecting him until the next evening, Juice shoved some clothes in his pack and mounted his bike, heading right back to the Bay Area. To Frank.

* * *

There was no answer when he buzzed, and no answer when he called. It was 2am. Maybe she was sleeping deeply? Or maybe she was out? But then why didn't she pick up? He hadn't expected not to be able to get to her. He was trying not to freak out—just because she was pinching and maybe cutting didn't mean she'd do something worse—but it was 2am.

He sat astride his bike and tried to figure out what he should do. It was eerily quiet; no traffic of either vehicular or pedestrian variety. He was working up to really fucking worried when a car came around the far corner and pulled toward him. A beautiful, vintage Thunderbird convertible, top down. Mid 50s. Red, he thought, with white interior, though the streetlights made colors weird.

The car stopped even with him, and he saw the driver and passenger. Desi and Frank. With one heartbeat, Juice went from worried to pissed. Furious. Jealous. She was seeing Desi behind his back?

He saw her see him. She leaned over and kissed Desi on the mouth, even though she knew he was standing there. Jesus Christ. Desi said something, and Frank laughed. As Frank got out, Desi waved to him and smiled. "Hi, Juice!" He stared.

As Frank stepped onto the sidewalk, she turned to wave at Desi, who blew her a kiss and then drove off. Frank turned back to him with a smile. "Hey. Didn't expect you until tomorrow night."

His heart was pounding. He was so fucking angry. He didn't think he'd ever been this angry at her. "I can see that."

She gave him a look and then put her key in the lock. She didn't try to kiss him or hug him first. He would've backed off, he was too angry to touch her, but he definitely noticed that she didn't even try. He followed her into the building, up the stairs, and into her apartment before he said anything more. She dropped her bag on the floor next to her desk and started to unzip her tall black Docs.

"What's Desi doing here?"

She kicked off her boots and looked at him. "She had business in the city. She took me to dinner."

"It's 2:30 in the fucking morning. That's dinner?"

Her hands on her hips, she gave him her defiant look. "Then we went to a club. What's your malfunction?"

All he could think of was the kind of shit Frank did with Desi at her club in Sacramento. She knew how jealous he was of Desi. _She knew_. He was so pissed he could barely see. He grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. Her head hit hard, catching a picture frame and knocking it askew, and she gasped.

"What kind of club? _Are you fucking her?_"

He saw the fear in her eyes. He saw it, and he hated it, but he couldn't get himself to calm down. She hit him often, when she was really angry; she bit and scratched and punched and slapped. But she was so little, she almost never hurt him at all—it was practically an accident when she did.

He'd never been violent with her. He'd restrained her, but he'd never hurt her. Not unless she wanted him to be rough—even then, even when she wanted it, he had guilt, and he was careful. But he was shaking with fury now. He didn't have the control to be careful.

"Juice, _no_. We just had dinner, hung out. She's my friend."

He needed to calm down; he knew he did. Instead, he slammed her against the wall again, and her head hit again. "Your friend you _fuck_!"

She blinked rapidly, as if she were trying to clear her vision. "Not anymore. I don't cheat, Juice. I don't cheat. You're hurting me. You're scaring me. Please."

It was the "please" that got through. He let her go and walked to the other side of the room, trying to breathe. "Why didn't you tell me, then? Why are you sneaking, seeing her behind my back?"

She put the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I wasn't _sneaking_, asshole." Now that he'd let her go, she obviously felt safe to fight back. "She called me today and told me she was in town. If you think I'm going to ask you for _permission_ before I see a friend, you are off your fucking nut."

He didn't answer. He was looking at the wall. There was a smear of blood, right where her head had hit.

"Fuck. Frank—" He turned to her; she was looking at the wall, too. She put her hand on the back of her head. It came back bloody. Holy fucking shit. He'd really hurt her.

"Let me see." He reached for her, but she backed away. "God, baby, I'm sorry. Let me take a look." She eyed him for a second, then let him come.

She flinched when he parted her hair to see, but she didn't fight him. It was bleeding pretty heavily. He was worried. It looked deep, and the lump under it was tender and a little soft. "I need to take you to the ER. I think you need stitches."

Jesus. He'd done this.

She pulled away. "No, I'm okay. It's not a big deal."

"Let me at least clean it up for you." She nodded, and he went into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. He stood staring at himself in the mirror for a long time, letting the cold water run down the drain. He'd hurt her. What the fuck was wrong with him? He'd come because he wanted to make sure she was safe!

He wet the washcloth and came back out. She was sitting at the desk, her head in her hands. "Frank, you okay?"

She lifted her head and smiled a little. "I'm fine. Just tired." She didn't look right. No. He wasn't fucking around with this.

"Where's your car? I'm taking you to the ER."

"I told you I'm okay. And anyway, my car is trapped in the garage, behind my neighbor's." She stood up, and her knees buckled. He barely caught her before she fell.

"We'll get a cab, then. Come on." He picked her up.

* * *

It was late morning before they were back. She had a concussion and had needed five stitches to close the wound. He hadn't asked her to lie, but she did. He'd listened to her lie to nurses, to doctors, to lab technicians. He'd been sent out of the room when a fucking domestic violence counselor had come, and he figured she'd told her the same lie she'd told everyone else—that she'd hit her head on the freezer door.

He knew she hadn't told the truth, because he hadn't been arrested.

The truth was that he'd knocked her almost senseless. He was twice her size, four times her strength, and he'd slammed her against a wall and opened her head. Jesus motherfucking Christ.

She was curled up on her side, snuggled against him on the futon, sleeping. Her hand was resting on his belly, her leg hooked over his. He lay on his back, propped up on pillows, and watched her. They hadn't let her sleep at all in the ER; even during the long periods of waiting, they'd wanted her awake. And now, they wanted him to wake her every two hours.

He gently brushed her hair back from her face. He guessed she was still dyeing it, but it seemed like she was trying to go natural. She'd said she was naturally strawberry blonde, and he'd seen as much in her old family photos. In a way, he missed all the crazy colors she'd dyed it—it was bright pink when he'd met her, and she'd cycled through blue, green, black, crimson, and silver as well in the first year he'd known her. But this natural color was beautiful. It looked right on her.

It looked, too, like she was growing her hair out again. He'd be glad to have her ponytail back someday.

He loved her so fucking much. He needed her like he needed air. But they were falling apart. He didn't know how to make it work, living apart. He'd stayed away far too long, and they'd lost a lot of ground. Frank was slow to trust, and even slower to trust again when she'd been betrayed. He'd hurt her badly when he told her he didn't want her to stay with him. He still couldn't bring her home; things were too unstable and dangerous around the club. But he'd done nothing but fuck up since she'd moved away.

It had been two hours. He shifted down so that he was face to face with her, then kissed her and shook her shoulder gently. "Hey, baby, wake up for me." She didn't even stir. He shook her again, a little harder. "Frank? Wake up, baby." Nothing. Starting to get scared, he shook her again and raised his voice this time. "Frank!" Her eyes opened. _Oh, thank God_.

She just looked at him. He kissed her cheek. "I need you to wake up all the way, talk to me for a couple of minutes, like the doctor said. Okay?" She nodded.

"You know what day it is?" She nodded again. "Frank, you need to tell me. You need to say it."

She cleared her throat. "Friday."

"Good girl. You remember what happened?" He hated to ask that, but the doctor had told him to.

"I hit my head on the freezer door." Fuck. What was he supposed to do with that?

"Anything else?"

"We took a cab to the hospital. It was gross. I'm tired, Juice. I want to sleep."

"Okay, baby. You need some pain meds?"

"No. Just sleep." Her eyes closed, but they popped back open after a couple of seconds. "Don't leave me."

He kissed her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, baby. I'm with you. Always. I love you so much."

"I love you." And then she was asleep.

* * *

She slept for eleven hours, in two hour intervals. He lay awake with her all day, afraid to sleep lest he miss the allotted time to wake her and check in.

She never answered that question in any way but with the lie. She didn't remember that he'd hurt her. She remembered everything else. She remembered being out with Desi. She remembered that he was waiting for her when she got home. She remembered taking a filthy cab to the ER, and she remembered everything in the hospital. But she didn't remember what really happened after Desi dropped her off. She didn't have a clear memory of hitting her head on the freezer door, of course—she got a puzzled look when he asked for details, and then she shrugged. But she didn't remember that he'd hurt her.

He didn't tell her. And when he'd had to get up to use the bathroom, he'd straightened the picture frame and cleaned the blood from the wall before he went back to lie with her.

When she woke on her own, just over an hour after he'd last woken her, she stretched and smiled at him. Her brow wrinkled as she rolled too far onto the back of her head, but she looked rested and better.

"Hey, baby. How're you feeling?" He picked up her hand and kissed it.

Smiling and snuggling close to him, she said, "Better. Hungry. My head hurts, but not as bad."

It was practically national news for her to say she was hungry. "Want to order food, cuddle in bed, and watch movies or something?"

"Sounds good. Veggie pizza, please. And _Alien_. Sorry I ruined the whole day."

He fought back tears. Jesus. He should tell her. He needed to tell her.

He couldn't.

"You didn't ruin anything. It was nice just holding you all day. I love you, Frank."

* * *

He left on Monday morning, after he dropped her off at work. He pulled up in front of the gallery, killed the engine and kicked the stand down, intending to walk her to the door. She got off, only to surprise him by getting right back on in front of him, facing him, her legs over his thighs.

She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. Savoring the feel of her studded tongue in his mouth, he clutched her close. They stayed like that, kissing, holding each other, for a long time.

"Mmm. I love you, baby. You are one hot little chick." He licked her lower lip, flicking his tongue back and forth across the piercing there.

She laughed. "Sorry I was out of commission all weekend. Next weekend will be better. It'd be even better in your bed, you know, instead of the House of Death."

Garrett and Marnie were getting married, and Frank was coming back to Charming for the wedding. She was staying at her brother's house, though, which was the house they had grown up in. Juice didn't want her at his place. All of this was about keeping her away from danger. Where he lived and worked, the places Sons' enemies knew—that was danger.

Garrett and Marnie were going away for the weekend after the wedding, so Frank was staying in her childhood home, and Juice was going to stay with her there.

"It's not so much the House of Death anymore. Marnie's touch is all over that place now. Garrett's, too. It looks good. Not creepy." Since their parents had died almost eight years ago, and until Marnie moved in, Garrett had kept the house virtually unchanged. It had freaked Frank out.

"Huh. I'll believe it when I see it." She kissed him again and dismounted, handing him her helmet. "Thanks for taking such good care of me this weekend. It was nice."

Fighting back the knot in his throat, he said, "Always, baby. I'd do anything for you."

She smiled. "I really do love you."

He grabbed her hand. "You're mine, Frank. I love you." He let her go. When she went into the gallery, he released the stand and kicked the engine to life. Then he pulled out and headed back to Charming.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Just another big thank you to my readers, reviewers, and followers! It takes some patience, I know, to hang with Frank and Juice!

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. You can blame me for everything else.

* * *

**CHAPTER 5:  
**"Ask," The Smiths

Frank came in a couple hours late to work on the day she had her stitches removed. What a dumb thing to do, not close the freezer before leaning into the fridge. She didn't actually remember hitting her head; that part was muzzy. She just knew she had. Just about ruined her whole weekend with Juice—though he'd been totally sweet and attentive, taking great care of her. In a lot of ways, it was really nice, staying in with him, being pampered. Almost worth the godawful dizzy headache. It was kinda their best visit.

Things were okay between them right now. Calm, anyway. When she'd stopped expecting anything of him, she was able to settle down a little. Once she really got it through her head that he wasn't someone she could count on, she was able to just accept what he gave her. Mostly.

It made her sad if she let herself think about it. She wished she could stop loving him so fucking much, but she wasn't built like that. She didn't have an on/off switch. When she loved, it was for keeps. Things got pretty dark when she started thinking about what she really wanted. She'd had it, for a little while. She'd felt happy and loved with Juice, right before he sent her away. She'd felt secure. Bad mistake.

But, still, it was better this way, knowing where she stood. On her own.

He kept calling her his old lady, but she knew she wasn't, not really. Ink didn't matter. Words didn't. Actions did. But whatever. This would have to do. It would be worse not to have him at all.

She settled in at her desk. She wanted to make sure she was done and out by 6pm. After work she was headed to Charming; Garrett and Marnie were getting married the next day. She'd only seen Garrett once since she'd moved, early on. She hadn't seen Marnie at all; she was pregnant and not having the greatest time of it. Frank was excited to be going home for a couple of days—and a little scared, too. She already knew she was going to hate to have to come back here.

Martin came into the back room and leaned on her desk. "How's your head feeling, Frank?"

"Better. Stitches out, got a real shower. It's a new day."

"Excellent. I have some news, and an invitation for you."

She raised her eyebrows and waited for him to elaborate. "Debra sold two of your paintings last evening—Catalyst #1 and Downward Spiral. The buyer was hoping to meet you. I know you're going out of town this weekend, but perhaps next week?"

_Holy shit_. She grinned. He winked. She'd sold more work! But meeting the guy? Ugh. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Meet me why?"

"Frank, you must learn to accept how all this works. Buyers want to feel they understand the artist as well as the art. Especially an unknown artist. He's going to want to know what the paintings are about, and he'll ask you questions about your artistic process. He'll ask you about your life. You'll need to come up with answers to such questions."

She sighed. Martin knew very well that she thought those questions were ridiculous. It didn't matter what the paintings meant to her. It mattered what they meant to the person looking at them. And her artistic process was fucking private. It was like asking a stranger how they preferred their sex. "Martin . . ."

He cut her off, raising his hand. "Make something up, Frank. You needn't expose yourself. Simply make something up. Think of it as a shiny bauble to distract a child. A child who has just handed you $17,000. Agreed?"

Shit. That was a lot of money. Frank had sold a total of four paintings since the summer. She was banking all the proceeds—more than $30,000 now. "Okay, fine. Good point. Was that the invitation? To meet this guy?"

He got up from her desk and straightened his suit coat. "Actually, no. Elizabeth has invited us both to lunch today. I believe she has something up her sleeve."

"Aw, Martin. Today? I'm not dressed for one of her deals."

"Actually, you are. She said we could pick the place. I'm feeling puckish. Let's take her for a burger."

Frank laughed. Martin was a dandy, always in his perfect suits and fancy ties, but he was pretty cool. "Awesome—ooh. Can we take her to Pier 39?"

"Let's not traumatize her, dear. She's not a young woman, after all. We'll go to the Wayfare. But you needn't change."

* * *

Elizabeth Demerest had probably never been inside a tavern in her entire, over-privileged life. She looked decidedly uncomfortable, but in the tradition of centuries of well-bred socialites, she was endeavoring to rise to the occasion with pluck and aplomb. She used a knife and fork on her burger—pinkies up. Frank thought it was hilarious.

Martin looked right at home, despite his pearl grey Armani suit, French cuffs, and fuchsia Hermes tie. For the first time, Frank wondered what he was like when he was relaxing at home. Did he have ink? Piercings? Was he maybe a bit of a freak?

"Frances, dear. Martin tells me that you've sold two more paintings. That's lovely. And David Alexander and I are great friends"—Frank had learned that "great friends" meant Elizabeth had run across somebody at a function once or twice—"I'm sure you'll enjoy meeting him."

Frances. God, that drove Frank nuts. But what was she supposed to do? Elizabeth was an old lady, stuck in her ways. And paying for Frank's apartment, a lot of her clothes, and all sorts of events. The whole thing made Frank feel like a whore, truth be told. A whore named Frances.

She kept eating, chewing instead of answering. Elizabeth, outwitted by the burger, set her fork and knife down neatly on her plate and leaned in a bit, as if she had a secret to tell.

"Martin and I have been talking, Frances, and we've struck upon an idea. How would you like to spend some time in Paris?"

Frank about choked on a mouthful of half-chewed beef. She forced it down, coughed, and grabbed her glass of water. "I'm sorry?"

"Have you ever been to Paris, Frank?" That was Martin.

San Francisco was the farthest from home Frank had ever been. "No. I've never left California."

Elizabeth laughed indulgently. "Well, we can't have that. Great artists must experience great art! Paris is the perfect place—perhaps with a little side trip to Italy as well! What do you think, darling?"

Frank was imagining Hell: Elizabeth dressing her up and carting her all over Europe. God, no. "Um, I don't—I mean—it's just—"

"You should bring a friend! No fun traipsing through Europe alone."

Wait. Alone? She looked at Elizabeth. "Won't you go?"

The old lady patted her hand. "That's very sweet, Frances, but you don't want a senior citizen slowing you down. I've seen all I need see of Paris, many times. You should see a youthful city. I was thinking eight weeks. That should be time enough to explore, I think. I have a little _pied-à-terre_ that's not getting any use lately. The housekeeper will be glad to have a reason to give it a turn."

Frank's brain was not working. Was this woman she'd been growing to despise offering to send her on an expenses-paid trip to Paris? For two months? With a friend?

"Um, I don't have a passport." She was mortified to admit that; it seemed so small-town.

"Hmm. Well, I think I can get your application expedited, but it will take some time nonetheless. Why don't we plan for a month from now? You'll be there for springtime in Paris! _Très chic_! Perhaps you might bring your young gentleman?"

Well, that was pretty progressive for the old broad. Of course, she didn't know anything about Juice, not even his name, but still. Sending Frank off to have an unwed love nest on her dime seemed downright punk coming from Mrs. F. Wainwright Demerest.

"But my job—"

Martin cut in, smiling, putting his hand on hers. "Not to worry, Frank. I'm sure we'll muddle through while you're gone, but we'll be waiting for you to come back."

She didn't know why people like this were nice to her. And she felt pretty shitty for the things she'd thought about Elizabeth. "Wow. Elizabeth, I don't know what to say. That's so amazing. And so generous. Are you sure?"

"Darling, you know I'm always sure before I make an invitation. I'd like you to make some acquaintances while you're there, of course." Ah, the rub. Make sure the right people know that Elizabeth Demerest has herself a pet artist.

You know what? For eight weeks in Paris with Juice, Frank felt like she could whore herself out a little. _Fucking Paris. Holy shit!_

"Thank you, Elizabeth. So much. Really." It wasn't even painful to say it.

* * *

Frank had landed in the thick of winter Friday traffic, as people fled the city for Tahoe. It took her almost four hours to get to Charming. It was late, and she was exhausted, but she could not wait to see Juice and tell him her news. She pulled in front of her childhood home and grabbed her pack from the passenger seat.

She got to the front door and stopped. She didn't know what to do. She'd grown up in this house, and she'd never knocked on this front door. Not once. But she didn't think she could just walk in—this was Garrett and Marnie's house now. It made her sad to think of knocking, though. Like something else she'd lost. Garrett had a new family now.

She really did have no one.

Before she could make herself knock, the door opened, and there was her brother. Tall, skinny, shaggy hair, wire-frame glasses. Exactly the same. Beautiful.

"Sissy!" He grabbed her and hugged her tight. She hugged him back. God, she missed having him in her life.

"Geez, Garry, you're going to break my back."

He set her back on her feet. "Sorry, sis. I just missed you. Get in here. We were starting to get worried."

Marnie was standing in the living room with a big smile. Big belly, too.

"Wow, Marn! What kind of freak are you growing in there?"

Marnie hugged her. "Delightful as ever, I see. All visual evidence to the contrary, it appears to be a single human male child."

"A boy? You're making a dude? Why would you go and do something dumb like that?" Garrett swatted her.

Marnie patted her belly. "My plan is to grow a whole crop of them—enlightened, sensitive men who put the toilet seat down, know how to sort laundry, run the dishwasher without being asked, and aren't threatened by powerful women in charge. A new world order."

"Think big, Marn. Think big." She looked around the room. It was bright and fresh and a lot different, even though the furniture was the same. She wandered a little ways into the hallway and saw that Marnie had added pictures to the family photo wall. Those photos hadn't changed since their mom had hung them, but now there were much newer pictures of Frank and Garrett, and Marnie and her family were up there, too. A few photos of Garrett and Marne. There was even a photo of Frank and Juice. It made her heart ache. She turned and walked back to the living room. "Wow. Everything looks great. Like people actually live here. Way to clear out the cobwebs, Marnie."

Garrett protested, "Hey, now. It looked like people lived here. I've been living here the whole time!" He grabbed her pack. "I'll take this back to your princess suite. You calling Juice?"

"Yeah, I will." She'd been harboring a little hope that he'd be there waiting for her. She needed to stop with the hope thing, where he was concerned. She dialed his registered number. It rolled to voice mail; she didn't bother with a message. She'd texted him just before she'd started out of the city; he'd replied, _Be there asap. Love you_.

Garrett came back into the room as she was putting her phone away. "Oh well, that's a non-starter. So, what's doing with you two tonight?"

Marnie laughed. "Nope. It's way past my bedtime. But let's get breakfast in the morning, before the crazy starts—just you and me." She waved and headed down the hall.

Frank looked at her big brother. "You bailing on me, too?"

"No way. Come sit and talk with me." He led her to the sofa. "Tell me what's up."

She laughed. "Nothing big. I just sold a couple of big paintings last night."

"Sissy, that's awesome. That's, what, four now? You're a star!"

"Yeah, don't get ahead of yourself, there, big brother. But it's pretty cool."

"Indeed it is. I'm so proud, sis." He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, and she leaned into the touch.

"Oh, and Elizabeth wants to send me to France for a couple of months."

His mouth dropped open. "Frank! You're going, right? But I thought we hated this woman."

"So did I, but now I feel bad. It's probably rude to hate someone who's giving me a trip to Europe. Yeah, I'm going. She said I can bring a friend, too. I'm going to bring Juice."

Garrett didn't say anything. It smelled to Frank like something was up. "What?"

"Nothing. Just—will he go? Will he be able to get away?" He of course knew about Juice not coming to see her for weeks, but he was staying out of their relationship these days. Good thing, really. It was Garrett who'd given Juice the idea to send her away.

Stupid. Stupid. She'd been so dazzled by the offer, and then so caught up in imagining being with Juice in Europe, that she'd gone the whole day without realizing how fucking stupid it was to believe he'd go with her. She slouched back on the couch. "Yeah, good point. I don't know. I don't want to go alone, though." No way would she go to Europe on her own. San Francisco on her own was almost more than she could take. Paris would make her head explode with the stress.

"Who's backup, then?"

"You?" She knew that couldn't happen, but her list of people she could stand was pretty short.

"Sis, you know I can't. I have the shop, and Marnie. I can't leave town."

"I know. By the way, you said those in the wrong order—just a helpful hint from me to you."

He gave her a puzzled look, then his brow cleared. "Ah. Good point. No, Marnie comes first. Absolutely."

"Good man. I don't have a backup. I don't have friends. You know that. So, I'm probably not going to Paris, then. Oh well." She seriously needed to stop getting her hopes up. She could not seem to learn that lesson.

"Wrong answer. You can't pass something like this up. You've got to have someone beside me and Juice you could ask."

"Someone I want to live with for two months? There's no—" No, there was one other person. "Do me a favor, Garry. Don't say anything to Juice about this Paris thing."

"You're not going to tell him? Maybe he'll go—don't you at least have to ask?"

"Oh, I'll ask. I just need to think a little first, get myself ready for rejection."

He gave her a serious look. "Frank, are you guys okay?"

No, they weren't okay. They'd been okay when she lived in Charming, when she was with him. When she had the life she'd chosen for herself. They weren't okay now.

She smiled. "Sure."

* * *

Juice showed up around midnight. He'd texted her to let her know he was on his way, so he wouldn't wake anybody when he got there. He smelled of Jack. It was Friday night. So, yeah. He'd blown her off for the Friday night party at the clubhouse.

Alrighty.

He pulled her into his arms; she let him. But when he leaned down to kiss her, she held him off. "Have a good time at the party?"

He sighed. "I had to stay for a while. We got guys in from another charter helping with a big job. It would've been rude not to hang with them."

She believed him. She just thought it sucked that she came in not only after SAMCRO—that, she'd always known—but after all the Sons everywhere, whether they needed help or just wanted to party down.

She needed to stop giving a shit.

He leaned in again for a kiss, and this time she met him. He was an amazing kisser. Within a few seconds, wrapped in his arms, his soft lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, she was all in again. He _did_ own her. In the only way that mattered, in a way that crippled her. She wanted nothing more than to be with him. She was at his fucking mercy.

"How's your head, baby?" He was kissing her neck as he asked.

"It's better. Got the stitches out this morning." She scratched her fingers through his mohawk.

"I'm glad. Where we sleeping tonight?" His breath was warm on her ear. She pressed her hips tighter to him, and he groaned.

"Since you won't let me in your place, we're doubling up on my princess bed."

"Guess I'll have to hold you close all night, then." His hand was in her jeans, cupping her ass, holding her tight. She could feel his erection against her belly.

"Guess you will." She climbed up and wrapped herself around him. It was her favorite place to be.

He pulled back a little and looked her in the eye. "Do you love me, baby?"

He told her he loved her all the time. She knew he wasn't lying. And when she was with him, she really felt his love. She didn't say it nearly as often. It was true; God, she loved him. But saying it out loud wasn't easy, and it was getting harder all the time. He already had so much power over her.

"I do. I love you. Too much."

He grinned and carried her back to her childhood bedroom. "No such thing."

Yeah, there was.

* * *

Garrett and Marnie's wedding was small, just a few close friends and Marnie's family. Considering how very square and middle class they were, Frank was impressed that her parents weren't especially worked up about their only child walking down the aisle with a big baby bump. Marnie had told her that they were just thrilled she'd nabbed herself a man. Dating had never been much of a thing for Marnie.

She was so perfect for Garrett it was like she'd been made to spec.

Juice and Frank stood up with them. It was weird to see Juice dressed in anything but his kutte and a t-shirt. He was wearing a black suit and a black dress shirt with a grey tie. The clothes did not in any way match the mohawk and blackwork tats on his scalp. Really—it was almost freakishly weird. But he looked utterly gorgeous.

Frank was wearing a vintage blue floral dress with a big skirt and a layered crinoline slip. She wished she'd been alive in the 50s. The clothes were awesome.

Garrett wore a new dark grey suit. He looked dapper; he even had a blue pocket square to match his tie. Marnie, God bless her, was dressed in white lace and chiffon. Nothing overly frilly—it was a lovely dress, and just defiant enough, not trying at all to camouflage the kid riding up front. Frank was so proud.

There was a little reception right after the service in the church basement. Then after dinner, cake, and presents, the newlyweds and their +1 headed off for a very short honeymoon. Frank and Juice packed up the gifts and went back to her childhood home.

They stacked the gifts on the dining room table, and then Juice pulled her around to face him. He framed her face in his hands and kissed her, his tongue plunging into her mouth. She kissed him back, sliding her arms around his neck. He reached down and grabbed her ass, pulling her up his body. Her dress puffed all around them as she settled in around his hips. Then she pulled back and looked at him.

He met her eyes. "What's up, baby?"

"Last time we were at a wedding, you told me you wanted to marry me. You said all I had to do was tell you when I was ready. What if I'm ready?" They'd been dancing at Opie and Lilli's storybook wedding. It seemed like a long time ago, but it hadn't even been six months. Opie and Lilli were both dead now. Their deaths were a big reason Frank was living in San Francisco.

Juice leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. "I still want that, Frank. I want you home with me. I want to marry you. I want it so bad. But not now, not yet. Not until we're done with the Galindos. When we're not muling, things will be better. You'll be safe with me then."

"When's that going to be?" She kicked off his hips, and he let her down.

"I don't know. Most of us—maybe all of us—want out, even though the cash is so good. But it's not that easy. You don't just quit working with a cartel." He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her back against him. "Baby, you know all this. I don't want to fight. Can we just be together right now?"

He was right; she'd heard all this before. She'd been spoiling for a fight. But seeing Garrett and Marnie together, living in this house, getting married, having a kid, made all this crap with Juice even harder to take. But he was right, too, that they were together now. Why fight when they could fuck instead? She climbed back up on him and kissed him.

"That's better." He started walking them down the hall. "I want to put my head under all these skirts and see if I can find you."

When he got to her room, he did exactly that. He laid her on the bed, her legs off the side, and knelt on the floor between them. He pulled her little ballet flats off and slid his hands up her legs, starting at her ankles. When he got to her knees, he pulled her closer to the edge of the mattress and puffed up her skirt, looking for his in. When he found it, her pulled her underwear off and came back to bury his head in the stiff tulle. She felt his mouth on her, kissing the Gordian knot she had tattooed over her pelvic bone.

He licked her folds, then he nipped gently, just around her clit. She gasped and lifted her hips, trying to get more from him. She heard a muffled chuckle under her dress, and then she felt his fingers sliding into her, pumping, his fingertips pressed against her inner wall. Oh, _fuck_, that felt so good. She thrust against his hand, increasing the pressure inside her. "God, Juice, yes," she gasped.

When he pulled his fingers out of her, she whimpered with the loss. He put his hands around her thighs and pulled her even closer to the edge of the bed and then pushed her legs up, folded tight against her belly.

Holding her like that with one arm across the backs of her thighs, he slid his fingers into her again and pulled them back out. She was so close; she couldn't keep still. She flexed her hips rhythmically and grabbed the other side of the mattress, over her head.

Then he pressed his mouth to her clit and sucked. As she moaned with the pleasure of his mouth, she felt a finger pressing against her anus. He'd done that before, rubbing there; she liked it. But now he pushed past the tight iris and slid his finger into her.

She gasped and lifted her head, "Juice!" She couldn't see him for her skirt, but he'd lifted his head up away from her clit. He gently pistoned his finger in her a couple of times. Every muscle in her body clenched. Her head fell back, and her back arched. "That okay, baby?" He turned his finger back and forth and pressed his mouth to her clit again.

_Geez-o wow_. She couldn't speak. She was a little scared, a little freaked out, and completely and utterly into it. He turned his finger again and sucked firmly on her clit, and she was done for. She screamed and pushed against his mouth, pulsing her hips erratically. He pulsed his finger, too, and she thought she would just implode right there on her little white bed in her little pink room.

When she was finally done, he eased his finger out of her and came up from under her dress. He released her legs, and she rolled to her side.

"Holy shit, Juice." Her joints felt like jelly.

He unzipped her dress and helped her pull it off. Then he picked her up and shifted her so she was lying longwise on the bed. Stripping quickly, he lay next to her. "Was that okay?"

"It was wild—intense."

He kissed her nose. "Good?"

"Yeah. A little freaky, but yeah." She could feel his cock, hard and hot, pressed against her thighs. She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, then rolled onto her back, pulling him with her.

"Hey—easy!" He laughed, though, and moved on top of her. He eased between her legs and kissed her deeply, his tongue flicking over the stud in hers, then pulling back so he could catch the bar in her lip between his teeth. She moaned and put her hands on his head, rubbing his scalp.

He scooted down a little and brushed his mohawk over her chest, making her twitch, before settling in to suck a nipple into her mouth, starting with the right and sucking deep. Frank moaned and clutched at his head. It felt so fucking _good_. When she was panting with need and couldn't stop thrusting her hips against him, he shifted to the other and caught the ring in his teeth and pulled.

As always, she felt that intense pleasure down her spine and around her hips. She gasped and arched way off the bed. "Fuck, Juice! I need you!"

He let go her nipple ring and nuzzled her. "Yeah, baby? What do you need?" He kissed her belly. Her scars there had faded almost completely.

She was so turned on she felt dizzy. "I need you in me. I need you to fill me up."

"I can do that." He came back up and kissed her on the mouth, pulling up her knee as he pushed into her as far as he could go. "God, you always feel so good. We fit just right, Frank. You and me."

She looked up at him. She could see him trying to tell her something with his eyes. He began to move inside her, and she grabbed his shoulders and closed her eyes.

* * *

She woke Sunday to the feeling of Juice's fingers on her back, tracing her crow. She rolled toward him, onto her back, and he started tracing her chest piece instead.

He smiled at her. "Morning, baby."

Stretching, arching into his touch, she murmured, "Good morning."

He was still tracing her new ink. "This really is beautiful. I'm glad you got it." He bent down and feathered kisses all over it. Frank was struck by the quiet intimacy of this moment. Everything felt okay. _She_ felt okay about everything. She was at ease. She didn't feel like this very often anymore.

He was playing gently with her nipple ring. She took his hand and held it. "Hey, can I talk to you about something?"

Smiling that thousand-watt smile, he said, "Sure, baby. Anything."

She needed to sit up for this, so she did, fluffing the pillows and leaning on the creamy white, curved headboard of her little girl bed. It was tough getting started, though. It shouldn't be—this was good news. But she was afraid what his answer would be.

"Frank?" He'd sat up, too, and was facing her, the sheet pooled around his hips. He was hard.

Okay, she needed to say something. "Elizabeth wants to send me to Paris."

That damn smile got even brighter. "Wow! That's so cool! When?"

Good start. "I need to get a passport, but in about a month. She has an apartment there. She wants me to stay for a couple of months."

The smile was fading. "A couple _months_? Why so long?"

"I guess she thinks that's how much time I need to see everything. But it's okay. She said I could bring a friend—she said I should bring my 'young gentleman'." She spoke the quotation marks. "You can come with me. It'll be awesome. You and me, alone in Paris."

And now the smile was gone. "Frank, I can't leave for two months."

She knew that would be his answer. She knew it. And yet it still hurt something fierce. "Why not? Why can't you? Please, Juice. I can't go to Europe by myself. I've never even been out of California."

He took her hand. "I can't leave the club, Frank. Not for that long. I have trouble getting away for a few days—you know that. There's nobody else that can do what I do, and I get hit up a lot to do it. I can't go. I'm sorry."

"I know. I knew that's what you'd say. It was stupid to ask."

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry, baby. I know you'd love to go to Europe." Squeezing her hand, he continued. "I'll take you someday, I promise. When the shit cools down. Not for two months, but maybe a couple of weeks. I've got decent money banked. We could do it up."

She pulled her hand from his. "That would be nice. But I'm going now, too."

"I thought you said you didn't want to go alone. And two months is a long time."

"Yeah, I know. It's about how long I was alone in the city before you came. It _is_ a long time."

He looked away. "Baby, I told you how sorry I was about that. But if you want to go alone, I get it. I'll miss you like crazy—I always miss you like crazy. But I'll be okay. We sure know how to Skype."

"Yeah, we do. That's cool. We'll do that. But I'm not going alone." He furrowed his brow, not understanding. Good. "I'm asking Desi."

She knew he was jealous of Desi, so she expected a reaction. Hell, she was counting on it, actually, half-hoping that he'd change his mind and go with her to keep her from going with Desi. That was manipulative bullshit, she knew, a bitch move. She hated herself for stooping so damn low, like when she'd kissed Desi outside her apartment. But she did it anyway.

And it wasn't an empty threat—or any kind of threat, really. It was the truth. Desi was the only person left Frank could ask to go with her.

But she did not expect Juice's reaction to be so strong. He just about leapt out of the bed and crossed to the other side of the room, keeping his back to her. She could tell by the way his back was flexing that he was breathing hard. She thought he was angry. But when he turned around, it wasn't anger she saw. She couldn't read it, but it wasn't anger. And he definitely wasn't hard anymore.

"Frank, please don't do that."

"I don't want to go with Desi. I want to go with you. But I'm going, and I won't be able to handle it on my own. Maybe she won't be able to go with me, either. But if you won't and she will, then I'm going with her."

"To _live_ with Desi? For two months? Frank!"

Jesus. She could not believe he was so jealous. Even before Juice, she'd almost always been rolling on molly when she was with Desi. They'd never had a relationship, not like that. Desi was a mentor and friend, almost a mom, more than anything else. Since Juice, she'd only been with Desi when she was also with him—and never since he said he was too jealous for it to continue. "You want me to experience the world. Well, here it is, being served up. Come with me."

"Frank, I can't! Dammit, I can't!" He pushed his hands back over his scalp.

"I don't have anyone else to ask, Juice. I don't have anyone."

He came back to the bed and knelt in front of her. "Please, baby. I'm really asking. I can't handle that. If you won't go alone, then wait until I can take you. I promise I will."

"Juice, come on. Desi's my friend. That's all. I don't cheat." Whoa. Déjà vu. A stray thought crossed her head, but it was gone before she could catch it. She shook it off.

He looked scared. That was the look. Fear. And something else, maybe. "I can't deal with that. How am I supposed to deal with that?"

Trying to figure out what was going through his head, she realized she was offended. "Easy. You trust me. I'm telling you that Desi is just my friend. So you trust me. Have I _ever_ given you reason not to trust me?"

He shook his head. "No, baby."

"No. I've never betrayed your trust. You can't say the same thing to me, but I'm still here. You owe me some fucking trust."

He dropped his head. She had a feeling like she was missing something important, that maddening sense that something was forgotten, like leaving for work and then worrying the curling iron was still on, but she had no idea what it was.

"Okay, baby. Okay."

It was quickly clear that the day wasn't going to come back from that conversation. Juice was quiet and distracted. So was Frank.

She was back on the road to San Francisco before noon.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Sigh. Juice, buddy. Sigh.

**Also:** Since this story has gotten the attention of a fanfic content vigilante, I want to let you know that I have a profile on Archive of Our Own (AO3) as well, under the same pen name. So if this story gets taken down here, I'll post it there. And then here, again, as soon as possible.

And, seriously. If the FF neighborhood watch crowd is now looking at SOA fic, their eyes are going to burn right out of their priggish little heads right quick.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 6:  
**"Living in a World without Her," The Pogues

She'd been gone three weeks. Almost four. Out of the country. Thousands of miles away. Paris. Living with Desi. Jesus Christ.

A month to go.

He'd only seen her once in the three weeks between Garrett and Marnie's wedding and when she'd left. She was busy getting ready, and he was busy, too. He'd taken the club van, though, and had taken both Frank and Desi to the airport, so at least he got to say goodbye there.

She'd been doing a lot better, he thought, as she'd looked forward to the trip. She'd clung to him, wrapped around him, for a long time before she finally went through security, but she'd been happy and excited for the trip.

That was good. He knew it was. But it didn't feel good.

The time difference was a bit of a problem. Not too much, because he wasn't sleeping too much, so they Skyped in the middle of his night, which was her morning. But every now and then the timing didn't work out, and they'd go a day or so with little more than a couple of texts.

She loved Paris. Desi spoke fluent French, and Frank had taken it in high school and college, so she could get by. She was having a great time. The apartment was apparently fabulous. He was happy for her.

And he was so fucking jealous he couldn't think straight. Sometimes, he'd hear Desi in the background, or she'd pass behind Frank wearing a kimono and carrying a cup of coffee, and it all seemed so easy and homey. Desi would say something that Juice couldn't quite make out, and Frank would laugh like it was a private joke or something. He hated it.

He trusted her. He did. And she was right—he owed her that trust. With any other person on the planet, he would feel totally secure about this. But Desi? All he could think about was the way he'd seen Frank respond to Desi's touch, the abandon and trust between them. How Desi knew exactly what to do for Frank, exactly how to touch her. Fuck, she'd shown _him_ some things. Even though he knew Frank meant to be faithful, she was now with Desi all the time. And they had that fucking bond that he didn't fully understand.

It drove him out of his mind.

* * *

Happy had an old lady. Happy Lowman, who'd never paid enough attention to the women he fucked to learn their names—or, hell, to tell one apart from another, for the most part. He had an old lady. That was fucking insane.

He was inking her tonight—Viv, the woman Juice had helped track down, the one who'd gotten so badly hurt by that Benji guy—so, of course: party. Juice had been staying away from club parties lately; he wasn't really in that frame of mind these days. But Happy settling down was an event that deserved at least a shot or two.

Viv made an impression. She was sexy-hot, had a super-confident attitude, and she fronted a blues band. She and Bobby played at the party, and they slowed down all the drinking, because everybody was listening so hard. Juice watched Happy watch his old lady. He stood there with a pool cue in his hand. Juice didn't think he'd ever even approached the table, had never even racked the balls. He just stood there, rapt, and watched her sing. Juice would never in a million years have expected to see that look on Hap's face. Love. Devotion. Possession.

The crow Happy put on his woman's back was huge. Leave it to Hap to make a statement like that. It went across her shoulder blades and almost halfway down her back, just about meeting up with another big tattoo of snakes or something. No wonder Hap fell in love—she had no fear of the tattoo machine, obviously.

She had that in common with Frank, whose crow was also really big, covering a lot of her back—though Juice hadn't picked it. He hadn't even known about it until after the fact, when she'd surprised him with it. It had been Frank's choice—her design, in fact. Her statement.

Suddenly, a whole row of circuits flipped in Juice's head. Jesus. Frank was his old lady. She was an _old lady_. She was part of the club. Part of this family. She'd chosen this life. _His_ life. With him. She chosen it on her own, and she'd had other options, other paths she could have taken. She'd made this choice.

And he'd ripped her away from it.

He'd done it to save her from a horrific fate like Lilli's, but how was that his decision to make? She'd fucking begged him to stay. She'd begged to come home. She'd been miserable away from Charming. She wanted this life.

Jesus fucking Christ, he was so stupid!

He walked back to the apartment, dialing her number as he went. He got her voicemail—of course. It was too early there; she'd still be asleep. He left a message: "I'm so sorry, baby. God, I'm such a fucking idiot. I love you. I need you with me. I'm so sorry for fucking everything up. Call me when you get this. We need to talk."

He hoped it wasn't too late to fix the monumental fuck-up he'd made of her life, of his life, of their life. He hoped they could put the life they'd had back together. He'd loved that life, coming home to her. Waking up with her.

Oh, God, he hoped he hadn't lost his chance to make it right.

He slid the phone into his pocket and went back out to the bar. He had the Prospect pour him a tall glass of tequila. He was going to explode if he didn't dull the edge of this self-loathing.

* * *

The party was shifting gears. Hap had grabbed Viv and taken her home. The guest of honor gone, everybody had gone into their usual party routine, drinking and whoring. Bobby was talking up a full-figured Crow Eater at the very end of the bar. Otherwise, Juice was sitting alone. He'd recently given up bothering with a glass and was just drinking straight from the bottle. A good sign that it was about time to call it a night, he thought.

"This seat taken?" Juice looked up to see Neela sliding onto the stool next to him.

He smiled. "It is now. I'm about to head out, Neela, but I'll pour you one before I go, if you want."

"Thanks, Juice. But you're not gonna make a girl drink alone, are you?" She gave him a little pout.

Shaking his head, he laughed a little. "Okay. One drink. But then I'm out. If you're looking for action, you'd definitely do better someplace else." He poured her a glass from a fresh bottle.

Neela took it and waved it at him in a little toast. "I'm okay with someone just being nice to me for a little while. You're a nice guy, Juice. A whole lot nicer than any of your brothers. Hell, it's nice just to be called by my name every now and then. That hardly ever happens around here, but you always do. So I'm glad just to sit with you until you're ready to go."

That was sad. She was a knockout. And she didn't talk like a lot of the women around the club. She sounded like she had some smarts. "Why do you hang around here, then, Neela? You're gorgeous. You seem pretty smart." She smiled broadly at that. "You could find a guy who was nice to you all the time."

She shrugged and sipped her drink. "I don't know. It's complicated." She paused, and then sighed heavily. "I don't know if you remember, it was before you were patched, but I came here with a Son from Oregon—Two-Step? You know him?"

Juice nodded. Two-Step was a Grade-A piece of shit. Neela went on, "I thought he'd give me his ink, but when we got here he passed me around SAMCRO, told these guys I'd . . . do things. Things that I'd only ever done for him. Not things I liked. I went with whoever and did whatever, though, because he told me to, and he's not the kind of guy you say no to. But when he went back to Rogue River, he left me behind. And, I don't know. I just stayed. I didn't have any better options, I guess. But now I'm stuck being the girl who'll do anything." She looked straight ahead for a second. "I never talked about that before."

Juice was staring at her. He'd never thought that the women who hung out with the Sons might be trapped there. He'd always thought of them as, well, _auditioning_, or something. Either that, or as just wild girls looking for a good time with bad boys.

She took a long drink and then leaned toward him, bumping her shoulder against his. "Can I ask you a question now? Where's your old lady, Juice? Did she dump you at the clubhouse and never come back, too?"

Feeling tears itching the back of his throat, he stared at the tequila bottle for a long time. "It's complicated, Neela. Not something I'm gonna talk about." He took a long swallow from the bottle and drained it. "Want another?"

Neela smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, kneading gently. "Definitely. Drinking alone is sad as hell. Almost as sad as _being_ alone."

* * *

Holy shit, he was drunk. With an effort, he picked his head up off the bar. This was a whole new world of drunk. How had that happened? Hadn't he been talking to somebody? When was that? Was that here? Today?

Bobby—he was pretty sure it was Bobby, though things were blurry—was passed out at the other end of the bar, his head on the leg of a Crow Eater who was passed out, naked from the bottom down, on top of the bar. That was just unsantitary.

Juice looked unsteadily around the room. Pretty much an orgy. Or the aftermath of one. Or a massacre. Hard to tell the difference. He should get home. Wait. Where was home? Home was where Frank was. Oh, but she was in Paris, with fucking Desi. Maybe fucking Desi. He snickered at his wordplay, but it turned into a sob.

So where was he supposed to go, then? Right. The apartment. Just down the hall. He could make that. He was pretty sure.

He got up off the stool and grabbed hold of the bar as the room did its tilt-a-whirl thing. They really needed to get someone in to take care of that. Not safe.

He barely made it to the mugshot wall. He didn't remember the apartment being so far away. He rested for a minute, his eyes closed, his back against the wall, waiting for things to stop.

"Aw, sweetie. You look like you need some help." He felt a slender arm around his waist, and his arm being drawn over shoulders. Soft shoulders. Smelled like flowers. Breasts against his side. Nice. Soft and firm. He sighed and opened his eyes. He squinted. "Hey."

"Hey yourself, handsome. I leave you alone for ten minutes and you fall apart. Let's get you to bed. What do you think? You think you can get that far? Then Neela will take good care of you."

Bed sounded good. He nodded.

Next thing he knew, he was lying down. Somehow, he'd made it to bed. He scratched his belly and discovered that he was shirtless. Then he felt sharp nails running lightly over his arms and chest. Felt nice. There was extra weight across his hips. "You need a woman who can handle you, Juice. Someone who knows what you need."

Yeah. What _did_ he need? He needed Frank. Where was Frank? He wanted her here.

Fingernails gently scratching around his navel and along the waistband of his pants. Man, that was nice. "Sweetie, you are one amazing specimen, you know that? You are beautiful." Frank had called him beautiful once.

"Hey, can I take a picture? Would that be okay?"

Juice couldn't think why not. The extra weight left his hips, and he felt a head pressed to his. "Say cheese, sweetie." He smiled and tried to open his eyes. The flash hurt, though.

Somebody was rooting around in his pockets. Then he felt his pants being opened, and hands on his cock. "Oh, Juice. Oh, my." Well, he wasn't too drunk to get hard, apparently, because whatever was going on down there felt fucking amazing. There was a flash of lightning. Lightning?

There was something he needed to remember. Something important. He couldn't get it.

Especially not with—holy shit—warm and wet and sucking and _oh, yeah, oh, yeah._ The room spun around him. He needed to do something, it was really important. It was crucial. But he couldn't figure out what it was. And shit, this felt _so good_. He tried to lift his head as he came, but it was too heavy.

He started to doze, totally relaxed. "Oh, don't got to sleep yet, Juice. There's lots more where that came from. Juice?"

As he was drifting off, he heard, "What's this little thing? Oh it's _adorable_. Look, sweetie, it's so little it doesn't even cover my tits!"

He had no idea what that meant or who was even talking. And there was more lightning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen lightning in California. Weird.

And then Juice had no more thoughts for a long time.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Remember the **warning about self-harm**? Pretty relevant in this chapter.

**Also:** There's a little passage where Frank and Desi are speaking French. I'm not going to do a whole French/translation thing. I don't even know how I would do it gracefully. So there are two sentences written in French. They translate to "Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?" Otherwise, I just signal that they are speaking either English or French, but I write consistently in English. They only speak French in the second section of the chapter, anyway. They have bigger things to deal with than Frank's fluency later on.

**Trivia note:** I live quite near the Stockton/Lodi area. The 925 area code on the T-M wrecker is wrong; that's a code for the East Bay area near San Francisco. The actual code for Charming would be 209. Foregrounding geographical accuracy over canon, I use 209 here.

**AND!: **The Freaks now have a blog! We're just getting started, but if you follow **R3-1 M4y3r**, **MuckyShroom**, **Simone Santos**, **ozzysgirl**, **EmeraldJewelSparkle**, **kiara8921**, **GemmaTellerSoa**, **HankLover**, or, you know, me, **laughingwarrior** (so far—we're recruiting freaks!), check us out. I added the link info for the blog to my profile page.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 7:  
**"You Are a Tourist," Death Cab for Cutie

Paris was _awesome_. Elizabeth's apartment was _awesome_. Hanging with Desi was _awesome_. She knew all kinds of cool places, and she knew how to meet all the cool people. She was the perfect companion for someone like Frank, who would never in a million years have thought to chat up people on the street or at the tables next to her in a café. Desi made friends fast, and with the kind of people Frank could stand to be around.

They'd found the punk scene straight away. And within the first week, they were already known around their little neighborhood. They weren't in some ritzy, ultra-posh area, either, but right in the heart of cool, near the Bastille. Shocked the hell out of Frank that her socialite benefactor would have such a great pad. And it wasn't even pretentious! Just a sweet little two-bedroom place, with a nice sitting room, a tiny kitchen and a couple of great little balconies.

It was _awesome_.

Frank had taken it as her mission to see every corner of every museum in the city. She hadn't been to the Louvre yet, because the crowds were too crazy. But she'd been to tons of other museums, and she'd spent three days at the Centre Pompidou. She wanted to spend more. She'd worn out Desi's patience with art within the first week—and Desi was actually trying to work long distance, too—so now Frank was going out on her own pretty often. She was getting to know the city. She walked and rode the Métro. She felt intrepid. She felt badass. It had been awhile since she'd felt badass. It felt good.

She'd gotten a new tattoo—now she had the Eiffel Tower on her ass, with a little Frank under it, arms spread. Yes, she did. Well, it was on the back of her hip, really. But it was more fun to say ass.

They ate at little hole-in-the-wall cafés and in fancy restaurants. They went to shows and clubs at night. By the end of the second week, they were getting invites to private parties and dinners. And Desi was planning a funky little cocktail party in their apartment.

It was _awesome_. Like a movie. Only cooler.

Frank almost didn't have time to miss Juice or to think about the crap between them.

Almost.

* * *

The morning after their party, Frank came out of her little room into the littler kitchen, where Desi had already brewed strong French coffee and laid out croissants from the _pâtisserie_ downstairs. It was how they started every morning: the day's edition of _Le Monde_, strong coffee, croissants. It just felt so damn _French_. She loved it.

"_Bonjour_, _ma_ _chérie_. _As-tu bien dormi_?" They spoke French together as much as possible, mainly to get Frank's fluency up. Desi was wearing her blue silk kimono. Until this trip, Frank had never seen her without her makeup, hair, and clothes being exactly as she wanted them. Desi was a striking woman when she was done up. Really beautiful, but not in any kind of mainstream way. She was heavily inked, full sleeves and chest, and even facial ink. The delicate vining up the side of her face enhanced her exotic look. But without makeup, and with her burgundy hair soft around her face instead of spiky, even with all the ink, she was fresh and sweet looking, and seemed younger than her 45 years.

Frank stretched. She grabbed a croissant and started picking at it. "I slept great, thanks. Quiet outside last night." Their neighborhood was usually busier at night than during the day. "How'd you sleep?"

Desi refilled her coffee and poured one for Frank. She switched to English. "Great until about 5 or so, when your phone started singing. I almost flew back to the States just so I could feed that thing to your loverboy. Or maybe I should have just fed it to _you_, since you're the one that left it right outside my door."

"Sorry! I forgot to get it out of my bag. It was Juice? He knows not to call until after midnight his time."

Desi shook her head and switched back to French. "The first one was Juice. I didn't check the others, but who else would it be? Unless Luc thought you might be ready to have some mercy on him?"

Luc was a neighborhood guy, part of the circle that had gathered around Desi and Frank. He was cute. Lean, pierced, inked. Funny, in a French way. He spoke decent English and helped her with her French, and he'd been flirting a little, especially at the party last night, but Frank was _so_ not interested. Even without Juice, she wouldn't have been interested. Boys were too much fucking work. Even the nice ones were a total mindfuck. If, or when, things did really fall apart with Juice, Frank was pretty sure she'd stop wading in the pussy pool and just dive on in. Women were just easier.

"No mercy from this quarter. I'll take a shower and then check my phone." There wasn't a rush; it was too early in Charming for her to call Juice back.

"Good. I'll shower after you. Keep it short—we're going shopping today." Desi pronounced it with a flourish, then turned back to the paper.

When Frank had showered and dressed, she pulled her phone out of her bag. Juice had called her once and left a message, at about 5am. She had three texts from a number she didn't recognize, but it had a 209 area code, so it was a Charming number—maybe a prepay? But she couldn't imagine why Juice would need to text her from a prepay.

Unless there was trouble.

Since it came first, she listened to his voicemail before looking at the texts. _I'm so sorry, baby. God, I'm such a fucking idiot. I love you. I need you with me. I'm so sorry for fucking everything up. Call me when you get this. We need to talk._

She didn't understand what new thing he'd done now, so, getting worried, she checked the texts. The first one was a photo of Juice, cheek to cheek with a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Juice was smiling; the camera had caught him in a blink. He was clearly shirtless.

There was a note with the photo: _Finders Keepers._

The next was a photo of Juice's erect cock, with another woman's manicured hand around it.

Her hands shaking, she opened the last text. It was a photo of the vaguely familiar woman, smiling into the camera. It showed her from almost waist up. Her breasts were bare, but she was not topless.

She was wearing Frank's kutte.

Frank threw the phone. A second or so later, she sat hard on the floor, her legs having given out.

* * *

_At first, she just rocked. She wasn't thinking. She just felt. She didn't even know what she was feeling. It was just raw and huge. It was loud. It buzzed in her head, in her blood. She was drowning; she couldn't breathe. She could only feel. It had no focus; it consumed her._

_She dug at the skin inside her elbows, grabbing handfuls, pulling, clawing, trying to find some focus, something she could think about that wasn't this thing drowning her. It wasn't enough; it was too small to overcome the enormity of the drowning. Even when her fingers came away wet, it was too small. She cast her eyes about desperately, seeing but not seeing, trying to find something that would help her find the surface again._

_She couldn't find anything. She needed focus. Without focus, she was going to blow apart, vaporize, disappear. She rose to her feet and pulled drawers open, frantically searching. Finally, in the center drawer of the little writing desk, she found something—long, cool, metallic, heavy._

* * *

"Frank, stop. My God. My God, sweetheart, you have to stop. _Stop_. What happened?"

Frank looked up at Desi, who was squatting at her side, her hand around Frank's wrist. She was still wearing her kimono, but her hair was wet, as if she'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Sweets, what _happened_?" Desi blotted at Frank's arms with a corner of her kimono. Frank looked away from Desi and down.

She had a silver letter opener clutched in her right fist; Desi had tight hold on that wrist. Her left forearm was hatched with long cuts, shallow but bleeding freely. The insides of both elbows were raw and bloody.

It was hardly the first time she'd hurt herself. But usually it was something she had control over, a kind of decision she'd made. And usually a few really hard pinches, or, when it was especially bad, a few cuts in an easily-covered place, centered her so she could deal with whatever it was she was having trouble dealing with.

This was the first time she'd lost time while doing it, and the first time the results were so chaotic. Well, no, that wasn't true. She'd lost time and gotten chaotic once before. But she'd been on LSD that time.

Desi was still holding her wrist tightly. Now, she grabbed Frank's chin with her free hand and forced her to meet her eyes. "Talk to me, Frank. Should I call an ambulance?"

Frank jerked her face free, yanking her arm away at the same time. "No! Don't call anybody! I'm okay!"

"Sweetheart, you are incredibly not okay. But I don't think any of these are deep enough to be dangerous, so I won't call, _if_ you promise to talk to me. Will you do that?"

Frank nodded.

"Okay, good. Let's get you cleaned up first." She stood and leaned down, taking Frank's upper arm in her hand, carefully helping her to her feet. She led her into the bathroom.

* * *

Later, cleaned up, patched up, wearing a cardigan over a long-sleeved t-shirt, and holding a glass of red wine at 9 in the morning, Frank sat on the sofa next to Desi. She still felt buzzy and indistinct. She still couldn't think everything that needed thinking. But she was calm enough.

Desi picked up her free hand. "Okay, sweetheart. Spill. Let's start with what got you so upset."

Frank shrugged. She couldn't think it yet, much less say it.

"Uh-uh, sweets." Desi shook her hand. "You promised to talk to me. So talk. Was it something on your phone? Did Juice say something to upset you?"

She just stared. She really didn't know how to say it.

Sighing, Desi said, "Okay, let's do this instead. Can I go get your phone? Can I see what's on it? Is there a voicemail or something?"

Frank nodded, and Desi kissed her hand and got up. "Don't move, sweets."

When she came back, she was going through the texts. "Oh, Frank. Oh, honey. There's a voicemail. Can I listen?"

Frank nodded again, and Desi put the phone to her ear. When she'd heard it, she asked, "Do you know the woman?"

Taking a breath, and clearing her throat, Frank said, her voice low, "I think she looks familiar, but I don't know her. She probably hangs around the clubhouse. I never spent much time there."

"Any chance this could be some kind of a setup? Or a prank, maybe? That it's not what it looks like?"

Frank laughed bitterly and set her wine down on the table in front of the couch. "That's his dick, Des. I can vouch. It's _exactly_ what it looks like."

Desi brushed Frank's hair out of her eyes. "Hell, Frank. You know I wasn't happy that Juice pitched his little jealous hissy and I stopped seeing you. But I don't see him doing something so mean. He really loves you. I don't see him in on this."

"Oh, I'm sure the pictures weren't his idea. That's her, making her move. He's a goddamn cheating pig, but he's not mean. But it doesn't matter, does it? It's not like they're photoshopped. That's him. His dick. With her hand around it. _He let her wear my fucking kutte!_ I left it for him. He told me he fucking slept with it!"

She could feel tears coming. Fucking tears. Goddamn fucking stupid tears. She grabbed at her arms, but Desi pulled her hands away. "Don't, sweetheart. Don't."

But that's what would have kept the tears at bay. So, instead, they came. She yanked her hands out of Desi's grip and put them to her face and wailed. Desi pulled her close and held her tight, stroking her hair.

When she was able to stop, she pulled away. Desi held her face and looked in her eyes. "He sounds pretty messed up in the voicemail. That's a sincere apology or a damn good act. What are you going to do with that?"

Frank was still wiping and sniffing, so it took her a second to think. "Not a damn thing. I am so ever-fucking sick of him tearing me apart and then telling me how sorry he is. That shit started before we were even together. It's like the worst abusive relationship, because he's _so fucking nice_ about it all. He makes it so I end up feeling fucking _sorry_ for him. I don't care. I have to stop caring. Desi, fuck. I feel like shit all the time. Loving him makes me feel like shit. Like a sore that won't fucking heal. I have to stop! He's tearing me up! And now he's fucking around on me, too! _I have to figure out how to stop loving him! I have to!_"

Hysteria was charging in, and she was almost screaming by the time she'd ended her rant. Desi handed her the glass of wine she'd set down earlier. She took a long sip and felt a little calmer. "Okay, sweets, okay. If that's what you want, I'll try to help if I can. Now, drink up, because I have another tough topic for you. I want to know what you were doing when I came out of the shower. How long have you been cutting? Are you doing anything else?"

* * *

They talked for a long time. Desi understood the cutting; it wasn't exactly unheard of in the punk community. She suggested a couple of coping strategies that didn't require several hundred bucks and a good tattooer. Frank couldn't say she felt better, but she felt like she had some control over her head.

She didn't know if she _could_ stop loving Juice; she felt like she loved him in every atom of her body, like he was in her DNA. But she had to get free of the pain. Right now, the pain was a balloon full of acid balanced on her heart.

They didn't go shopping. Frank just went to bed. She didn't sleep—she just lay there, thinking. Feeling.

Juice had been calling and texting all day. The texts were all just pleas for her to call him. She deleted them. She deleted the mails without listening. She couldn't figure out what she would say, and she was afraid if she heard his voice she would cave. So, finally, as evening was becoming night, and after Desi had come in and insisted Frank at least get up and come with her to the café downstairs for a late supper, Frank sent Juice a text: _Stop calling. We're over. I'm done._

She sat there for minutes with her finger poised over "Send" before she could force herself to tap it. Then she curled up in a ball and cried.

* * *

It took her a few days, but Frank started getting out of the apartment again and seeing the sights. She made good on her promise to Elizabeth and had a couple of awkward meals with her socialite expatriate friends. She spent time with the new friends she and Desi had made. Paris had definitely lost most of its gloss, though. Everything seemed darker, duller now.

Desi packed her up and took her to Italy for a week. They did a whirlwind tour, staying a couple of days each in Milan, in Florence, and in Rome. It was lovely, but Frank had lost her bounce.

For days, Juice kept calling, kept texting, kept trying to Skype. His texts became frantic and confused. He kept writing that he didn't understand. Asshole. She finally just turned her phone off and bought a prepay so she and Desi could keep in touch when they weren't together. And she had to be careful to close her Mac when she wasn't on it. Three times she'd seen the green camera light on. She was pretty sure he'd hacked her and was spying on her through her own webcam. Fucking creep.

Then Garrett called to ask what was going on. She'd talked to her brother about once a week the whole trip, but she hadn't said anything to him about what had happened. Then Juice had gone to see him, trying to get to her that way.

Having Garrett intercede blindsided her. It shouldn't have; Garrett had gotten in the middle of their shit several times. All she told him was that she and Juice were done, and it was none of his business. But she'd had a rough time that night.

As the trip was winding down, in its last week, Frank started to feel the black cloud really pressing in on her. Marnie was about to pop, and Frank wanted to be home when the baby came, but having an ocean between her and Juice had helped. She was scared about what she faced back in California. She was afraid he'd try to see her and succeed. She was even more afraid because a big part of her wanted him to. She missed him. It was sick and masochistic, but she missed him so much. She felt incomplete.

Desi had changed their return flights so that Juice wouldn't know when they were back. Frank thought that was sweet but unlikely to help. If it occurred to him that their flights might change, he'd be able to find out their new itinerary within about five minutes. Less.

The night before they were scheduled to head back to the States, Frank was alone in the apartment. Desi had gone out; Frank hadn't been in the mood. But once she was alone, the black cloud of fear and despair had its way with her. She managed not to cut. Her arms, especially her left arm, still looked like hell from her episode after she'd gotten the pictures of Juice. She'd been wearing long sleeves for weeks.

She paced and she rocked, but she held it together. Desi had given her the idea to snap a rubber band around her wrist. It wasn't the same, but it was enough. For now.

When Desi got home, Frank was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, trying to read and trying not to cry. Her wrists were both red and angry from the rubber band thing, but hey—she wasn't bleeding.

Desi dropped her bag on a chair and kicked off her shoes. "You don't look so good, sweets." She spoke English. With the trip basically over, Desi wasn't worrying about Frank's French anymore. She sat down on the sofa. Picking up Frank's hand, she turned it and looked at the bright red pattern around her wrist. She plucked gently at the rubber band. "Did this help?"

"Yeah, enough. I'm okay. Stressed about tomorrow. I'm not ready to go back."

Desi ran her fingers through Frank's hair. It was starting to get long again; long enough to tuck behind her ears, and for the first time since she was in high school, it had no dye in it at all. She'd been letting it fill in, too, while they were in Paris. Her scalp tat had never been covered before. But she wasn't so much of a "gamer grrl" these days, badass or otherwise.

"I know, Frank. But it'll be okay. Eventually. Hard, but okay."

Fuck. Tears were coming again. She hated them so much. Frank pulled viciously on one of the rubber bands and let it snap back against her skin. She did it again. And again, until she knew she wouldn't cry. Desi pulled her into her arms.

With that touch, the tears came with a vengeance. She tucked her head into Desi's neck and stopped fighting them. Desi held her, stroking her back, rocking slightly.

Desi was someone she could count on. Desi helped her. Desi had always just been there, asking nothing. Even when Frank had gone months without seeing her, Desi was there as if it had only been days. Desi understood her. From the first time they'd met, Desi had just known what she needed. She'd known what would help. She took care.

When Desi kissed her cheek, Frank turned into it and caught her mouth. She could taste her own tears between their lips. Desi framed Frank's face in her hands and deepened the kiss. They sat like that, wound together on the sofa, their tongues moving against each other, for a long time.

Then Desi shifted and pushed Frank down on the sofa, her hand moving along Frank's legs, under her skirt. She slid her hand around and squeezed Frank's ass. Frank moaned, arching up, feeling the pulsing between her legs begin, and Desi shifted to lie fully over her. Desi's hands were soft and gentle, caressing Frank's skin tenderly while they kissed. Everything about Desi was soft. She felt safe. Comforted. Juice was so much bigger than Frank, so hard and sculpted, sometimes she felt overwhelmed—though that itself was hot. And she loved the sensation of being overcome by his body.

And suddenly, Frank couldn't. It felt like she was cheating. That was blazingly fucked up, but it was true. It felt like cheating. She pushed Desi gently away and sat back up. "I can't, Des. I'm sorry."

Desi was flushed, but she rubbed Frank's thigh soothingly. "No sorry necessary, sweets. You okay?"

Frank nodded. "Okay enough. I don't know what I'd do without you, Des."

"You're never going to have to find that out. My little Frank. Ready to hit the sack? We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Though I usually try to keep the timeline moving forward with each chapter, the timeline for this chapter entirely overlaps that of the previous one. Seemed like we needed to see what was going on with Juice after that whole fiasco.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 8:  
**"Second Best," Pulley

Juice woke with yet another fucking hangover. Jesus, this one was bad. Worst ever, maybe. His mouth was so dry this tongue and throat felt chapped. His brain was on fire. And, fuck, his stomach. _Fuck_. He was shaking. He put his hands over his face and groaned.

Struggling to lift his head, he finally managed to roll over and sit on the edge of the bed, hanging over his knees. Jesus, he needed to back off. Maybe he should try to sleep at his house again. When he went home at night, he stopped drinking before he got too fucked up to ride. Lately, whole nights were just dead black space the next morning.

His belt and jeans were open and his shirt was off. Usually he just landed face down on the bed. Whatever. Fuck, he was going to be sick. He threw himself into the bathroom and collapsed over the toilet.

Still shaking, he checked his cell when he managed to get free of the bathroom. Nothing from Frank. That worried him a little. It was—he checked the time—afternoon there. He was sure she'd gotten his voicemail asking her to call him. He called her again, and it rolled to voicemail.

"Hey, baby. I really need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you can, okay? Or, even better—Skype me. I miss those gorgeous eyes. I love you."

Then he texted, just to be sure. _Call me asap. Need to talk. Love you._

An hour later, just starting to think he wouldn't actually die today, he still had no word from her. He began to panic, and he called again. "Frank? Are you okay? I'm getting worried, baby. Please call."

And texted. _Please call—worried._

He did it again in a half hour. And again. And again. He was frantic, his heart in his mouth, getting ready to call Garrett and send in Interpol, when his phone alerted an incoming text.

_Stop calling. We're over. I'm done._

He sat down hard in a wooden chair in the clubhouse main room. He wracked his brain, trying to remember exactly everything that he'd said in all his voicemails, everything that had happened since he'd last spoken to her, when they'd ended on a good note, with Frank chatting about what she'd been seeing and doing in Paris. He thought about the voicemail he'd left last night, when he told her he was sorry, he needed her, and he loved her. How could that have set her off? What happened? _What fucking happened?_

He was crying. He needed to get somewhere private, so he went back to the apartment. He called her again and left another voicemail. "Frank, baby. Please. I don't understand. Please talk to me. Please, baby. Don't end it like this. Please. Tell me what I did. I'll fix it. I'll make it right. Just tell me."

Then he texted: _Please not in a text. Talk to me. Give me a chance. I love you so much._

Then he waited. She'd call. No way she'd break his heart with a text. No way. She was better than that.

* * *

He didn't hear from her again. He kept trying, but she never responded. And within a few days, his attempts rolled straight to voicemail. She'd turned off her phone.

He felt like he was literally going crazy. He hacked the webcam on her Mac and got glimpses of her. One evening—night in Paris—he watched her sleeping for hours. The room was dim; he couldn't see much. But he knew she was there, and he could hear her make sounds every now and then in her sleep. He fell asleep watching her. When he woke up, the connection was lost. She must have closed her Mac.

A couple of other times, he'd caught her unawares, and he'd gotten to really see her for a few seconds. She looked sad. He was glad of it. He was glad to see that she hadn't ripped his heart out of his chest and then danced off into Paris. When she saw that the camera was on, she said, "What the fuck?" and closed her Mac.

The last time, she was actually on her Mac when he connected, and she noticed right away. She was pissed, but she didn't engage him. She simply said, "You are a creepy fuck," and closed the screen. But he'd seen her arm as she did it. It was a mess of healing cuts. It looked like she'd jammed it into a shredder.

He didn't understand. Fuck, he needed to talk to her. He needed to understand.

* * *

Garrett answered the door in pajama bottoms and nothing else. Juice had never seen his bare chest—damn, that family was a skinny crew.

"Juice? It's 1:30 in the morning." As soon as that observation left Garrett's mouth, Juice could see implications occurring to him. His voice was sharper when he asked, "Is something wrong? Is Frank okay?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me. She won't talk to me, Garrett. I don't know why."

Garrett looked at him for a couple of seconds. Then he sighed. "Come on in. I'll get you a beer."

"No, thanks—water would be good, though."

Garrett turned back and considered him. "Okay. Coming up. I'm just going to grab a shirt first. Have a seat in the living room."

Juice sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees. Garrett came back in a few minutes, carrying two glasses of ice water, wearing a grey t-shirt with an image of a 20-sided die on the front. He handed Juice one of the glasses and sat down in an easy chair next to the couch.

"Okay. What's up?"

Juice drank down the whole glass of water and set it on the end table. He looked at his friend. "When did you last talk to Frank?"

"Couple of days ago. Why?"

"She's okay? She tell you anything was wrong?"

"She's fine, far as I know. She sounded tired, but she just got back from Italy. I figured that was it." Garrett leaned forward in his seat. "What's going on, Juice?"

So she was still playing in Europe. Not too heartbroken, then. "She didn't say anything about me?"

"No. You didn't come up. What the fuck is going on, man?"

"She broke up with me. Almost three weeks ago. She hasn't spoken to me since. She sent me a fucking text and broke up with me. I don't _know_ what the fuck is going on. I'm losing it, Garrett. I don't know what I did." Then he asked the worst question, the one he was most afraid of, the one haunting him, the only explanation he'd come up with. "Is she with Desi now?"

"You mean _with_ Desi? Why would she—?" Apparently, Garrett didn't know Frank wasn't entirely gender-particular. But he rebounded quickly from his surprise. "Not as far as I know." He was quiet for a long time. Finally he said, "I just don't know, Juice. We don't talk about you. I'm staying out of it between you two now."

"I gotta know, man. I gotta know. Please ask her to call me. I won't hound her if I can just talk to her one more time. Just so I can know."

Drinking down his own glass of water before he said more, Garrett eventually nodded. "Okay. I'll ask her."

* * *

He sat at the table and listened to his brothers give Happy shit for buying a house with Vivian and getting everybody to help them move in. Juice forced himself to smile as everyone else laughed at some exchange between Hap and Chibs. He wasn't paying that much attention.

Garrett had asked, and Frank had shut him down, telling him nothing. And she still hadn't called. He had faced the fact that she wasn't going to. He was never going to hear from her again. She'd cut him off, cut him down. With a fucking text message.

When church was over, the guys were milling about in the main room. Juice looked aimlessly around, taking stock of the people in his life. Sons. Crow Eaters. Fuck, that was depressing.

Gemma walked up to him. "If you're looking for Neela, I sent her off. She won't be back. For the best, sweetheart."

Juice was confused. He had no idea what Gem was talking about, but he remembered a talk he'd had with Neela once, and he felt bad that she'd been dumped again. "What? Why?"

Gemma put her hands on her hips. "I don't like girls around here pushing up on the Sons with old ladies. Not at home. There are rules. Last thing we need around here is another damn cat fight. Or another bitch waving a gun."

"Okay, Gem. I don't know why you're telling me. I only talked to her."

She made a face. "Juice, baby, think who you're talking to. Don't bullshit me. I'm just letting you know, Neela's off the menu." She walked away.

Juice was baffled. But there was something happening in the back of his head that made him worried. "Gemma, wait up. What are you talking about?"

She gave him an appraising look and obviously found him wanting. "You don't remember, do you? You need to hold your liquor, kid. I found her coming out of the apartment the morning after Happy inked Viv. Unless you two were _talking _all night, I'd say you fucked her."

Juice did a whole lot of stupid shit. The stupid was strong in him. His whole life, he'd stopped thinking one thought before the right one. It got him into no end of trouble. But he was actually really smart. It took him no time at all to understand that, if Gemma was right, he'd fucked Neela on the exact same day that Frank broke up with him.

But how did she know he'd done it? Fuck, _he_ didn't even have any idea until right now.

As he contemplated, he realized that the how didn't matter. It was true. He'd fucked Neela. And Frank knew. The rest was just details.

Jesus Christ.

Gemma stood there and looked at him while all these thoughts and calculations ran through his head. Then she said, "You know I got a soft spot for Frank. She's young, Juice. And you've been fucking with her head. I haven't seen her in months, but I know. I know because you can't send a woman away like that and think everything's gonna work out. Especially not one as young as Frank. And who the fuck is protecting her now, when you're so far away from her?" Suddenly, Gemma slapped him upside the head. "You put that crow on her, asshole. Act like it. You need to find your balls. Take care of what's yours."

Gemma was right. Juice knew it. Sending Frank away sent her out of his protection. He'd made her _more_ vulnerable, not less. In so many ways. But it was too late. If there was even a way to make all of this right again, he had no idea where to start.

* * *

He waited for her at the airport, but she never showed. He waited for hours. When he got home, he checked into her itinerary—he'd been distracted and hadn't thought to check for changes ahead of time.

They _had_ changed their plans, and they'd come in a few hours earlier than he'd expected. He'd just missed them.

He sat there trying to think all the way to the right thought. But he couldn't find an obvious answer. He just knew he needed to see her, talk to her, whether it was the right thing to do or not. So he went out, got on his Dyna, and headed to San Francisco.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Another self-harm warning for this chapter. Much more intense than before.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 9:  
**"Godspeed," Patti Smith

Frank's phone was ringing. She yanked the other pillow over her head. Jetlag was killing her.

She'd turned her phone on when she got back to the States, so she could be sure to be available for Garrett. Marnie was due to pop any minute. It seemed that Juice had finally stopped calling. But now the blasted thing would not shut up, and she needed to sleep.

All the pieces slowly sorted themselves out in her foggy, time-confused head, and she peeked out from under the pillow and stretched her hand out to grab her phone.

Yep, it was Garrett. "Yeah, Garry."

"So, are you coming or what? Time's a-wastin', auntie."

She sat up. "Shit! Is the baby here already? Fuck, I wanted to be there."

"Not here yet, but Marnie's working on it. She's been in labor for a few hours now. You better get a move on if you want to be here for the big reveal."

"I'm out the door, Garrett. Tell her to clench until I get there."

"Um, I'm not telling her anything like that, sorry. You'll just have to hurry." After a pause, he added, "But don't be stupid on the road!"

"I won't, but I'll get there as quick as I can. See you soon!"

She ended the call and checked the time. She'd slept for 90 minutes. In, like, two and a half days. _Sure_. That should be _plenty_. Okay, she was in for an interesting 100-mile drive. She jumped in the shower, yanked some fresh clothes on and started for the door. At the last minute, she remembered that she was supposed to pick up Smeagol today. Martin and Claude had taken him in while she was gone. She texted Martin to let him know what was going on and that she'd be back, for the cat and to work, as soon as she could. _Then_ she headed out the door and back to Charming.

* * *

She'd stopped at a gas station on the way and picked up some energy drinks, so she was simultaneously wiped out and totally wired when she got to the hospital. And Marnie was in full-on labor, pushing and everything, so she had to wait in the waiting room. Marnie's folks were there, too. Her mom was knitting a little blue blanket. Her father was reading the sports section, wearing little half-frame reading glasses. Damn, they were like a TV version of grandparents. They were fucking adorable.

Frank was not good at talking to people she didn't know well. Not at all. She was hopeless at small talk. So, when she caught Marnie's mom's eye—her name was Barbara—Frank just smiled and shrugged. Barbara smiled and went back to her blankie.

Finally, Garrett came out. He looked freaked out and happy as shit. Frank, Barbara, and Gene, Marnie's dad, all stood at the same time.

Garrett grinned. "Everybody's good. The baby's great. Marnie's tired but good. Happy. Barb, Gene—would it be okay if I brought Frank in first? Just for a few minutes?"

Gene didn't looked thrilled, and in fact opened his mouth to say something, but Barbara put her hand on his arm. "It's fine, Garrett. But please don't keep us waiting too long. That's our first grandchild in there!"

"Thanks, guys. We'll be quick." Smiling, he held his hand out to his baby sister. "Come on, sissy. There's someone I want you to meet." He looked at what she was holding. "What've you got there?"

She held it up. It was a teddy bear, about a foot tall. With a red mohawk, piercings, a little black pleather motorcycle jacket with a red anarchy symbol on the back, and black combat boots. A punk teddy. She'd found it in a funky little shop in Paris. She also had a package of temporary tattoos. "Gifts for the kid. Get him started on the right path."

Garrett laughed and took the gifts. "That's awesome, sissy. Thank you." He kissed her head.

He led her down a hall and into a room where Marnie, exhausted but glowing, was sitting up in bed, holding a little bundle. All Frank could see was a little blue beanie.

"Hey, Frank. Glad you made it. You want to see your nephew?"

Frank walked up. She was nervous, weirdly. Marnie shifted so that the baby was turned the other way. "Meet Oliver Francis Duvall." Frank smiled. Oliver was their father's name. And the middle name—"His middle name's not . . ."

Garrett grinned at her. He was just grinning nonstop, actually. "Yeah, it is. With an "i," obviously, but yeah."

Wow. Frank looked closer. Marnie lifted him up a little. "You want to hold him?"

"Oh, wow, I don't think—no way, Marnie. That's—no."

"Don't be a wuss, Frank. You're going to have to do it some time. Now seems like a great time to start." She nodded at Garrett. "Your brother will help."

And then she was holding her brother's child in her arms. He was lighter and less squirmy than she'd expected. His eyes were closed. He looked a little squished. He was beautiful. "Hey, little hooligan. I'm your Auntie Frank. I'm kind of a disaster, but I promise not to mess you up too much. Let me know when you're ready for ink, though; I can hook you up. Seriously. I'm connected. Keep it in mind."

She kissed his little wrinkly forehead. Then she whispered, her lips near his cheek, "You're a pretty good birthday present, shorty. You and me—we'll never forget."

She looked up and saw Garrett kissing Marnie. They looked perfectly, beautifully in love. Serene. Complete. They were a family. She handed Oliver back to his mom.

Frank knew then that her heart was completely shattered. Fuck, it was annihilated. She was just empty.

* * *

After a couple of hours of sitting around watching the perfect family, complete with perfect grandparents, making a perfect little closed circle, she couldn't take it anymore. She kissed her worried brother, his bemused wife, and their sleeping baby goodbye, and left the maternity ward to head back to San Francisco.

She was headed to the elevator when Juice stepped out of it. She froze. He froze. She didn't know what to do. He was standing between her and her escape. She turned in a circle, trying to think of how to get away. He was coming up to her.

"Frank! Baby, wait. God, please wait." He was on her, grabbing for her arm. She yanked it away and tried to move around him. He stepped into her path and she jerked, trying not to touch him. "Wait, baby, _please_." He tried to block her way, and she flinched hard, hitting the wall. He was nearly pressed against her, his hands on her shoulders.

A wave of déjà vu hit her so violently her knees almost buckled. She stood there, reeling, flat against the wall, Juice holding her there. And then she understood that she had never hit her head on any freezer door.

Panic was on her hard now. "No!" she screamed and knocked his hand away. She bolted for the elevator. He chased after her, but just then a security officer turned the corner. Frank ran up to him. "I need some help."

Juice stopped in his tracks. "Frank, I only want to talk. Please, baby."

The officer looked at Juice coldly, taking in his kutte with contempt, then turned to Frank. "How can I help? Did he hurt you?"

"I just need some time to get to my car, then I'll be okay."

"You're sure that's all?"

"Yeah, that's it."

He looked at her for a few more seconds, then unsnapped his holster and said, "Head on to the elevator, then, miss. Your friend and I will stay right here and talk."

Frank looked at Juice, whose face was a mask of pain. She was sorry to hurt him. Fuck, why the holy hell was she sorry? Why the fuck did this hurt so bad?

She turned to the officer. "Thanks."

She got on the elevator, staring at Juice until the doors closed between them.

* * *

The trip back to the city was a blur; she didn't know how she'd made it. But she knew she was a fucking mess by the time she got herself into her apartment. She was vibrating right out of her skin. And now she was in her own space, without anything to direct her energy. Now the real trouble had room to get busy. She could feel it slipping in, but she couldn't stop it from coming.

_She couldn't handle it. She couldn't deal. It was too much. Everything was too much, too big. God, she was so tired. She didn't have any rubber bands. She tried ice. That was a fucking joke. She paced around her little apartment, panting and moaning._

_She grabbed at her arms, pinching and clawing. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. Her clothes were trapping her, choking her. She stripped to her underwear and kept pacing. She kept going toward her desk and then turning away. Over and over, getting closer and closer. Finally she grabbed the X-Acto from her art supplies._

_She sat on the floor and drew the knife across her leg once, twice, three times. Blood was running. But it fucking wasn't enough. She barely felt anything. She slashed the other leg. She was still coming apart. She pounded her fists against her head. It was too much. Too much. Too fucking much._

_She threw the knife away from her in disgust. She needed more. What would be more? What would make it stop? She stormed around her little room, pulling open drawers and cabinets, searching for the thing that would make it stop. She slid in blood and almost fell._

_She worked her way to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There were the pills they'd given her in the ER. When her head had been hurt, but not by a freezer door. Vicodin. The bottle was full; she hated pills like these and had never taken even one dose._

And then she was calm.

* * *

She was very calm. It made perfect sense. She had clarity, for the first time in a long time. She was relieved. Peaceful.

On that cloud of calm, she handled her affairs. She wanted to be responsible. She emailed Martin and tendered her resignation. She thanked him for everything he'd done for her. She apologized for not picking up Smeagol in a more timely fashion. She emailed Elizabeth and thanked her for her generosity. She wrote Garrett a letter and left it on her desk; she wanted something more personal for him than an email. She realized that she wanted to hear his voice, so she called and left a voicemail, just so she could hear his outgoing message: "Hi, Garry. I just wanted to tell you I love you. You've been a great brother. You're a great dad, too. Thank you. You deserve that beautiful new family. You're my hero, big brother."

Then she pulled Juice's bottle of Jack out of the cabinet, poured herself a glass, and started swallowing pills. They went down rough with the whiskey, but she took her time. As she was taking the last of them, her phone started ringing. She ignored it and lay down.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Yeah, my OFCs all end up in the hospital at some point. I have no idea what's up with that, except that loving a Son is hard on the body and soul.

FYI: I'm changing the way I do section breaks, because the recent changes to the site seem to have made the borders less distinct. So that's what the recurring line of "Os" is about.

**Also: **I'm on Twitter, if you care about things like that. All the freaks are. We have some free-wheeling convos there. It's where the freak sausage gets made.

Yeah . . . thinking about rephrasing that . . . nope, it's apt. Follow if you dare. **laughingwarrio1**

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. The OCs are mine.

-oOo-

**CHAPTER 10:  
**"All Alright," Fun.

Juice was sitting in the dark in his living room when his phone rang—not the prepay. It was Garrett. He'd never even gone in to visit Garrett and Marnie after the disaster with Frank in the hospital hallway. He'd gotten Garrett's text that Marnie had had the baby while he was on the road, and when Frank hadn't been home, he'd turned right around. He'd wanted to congratulate his friend, but he also realized that that's probably where Frank was.

He'd been right. And, again, he'd managed to make things worse. It's all he ever did.

She knew he'd hurt her. He'd seen it in her widening eyes when she remembered. When he saw it, he knew. He had no chance. There was no making things right. He'd done nothing but make them wrong.

Once the asshole rent-a-cop had let him go, he'd just left and come home. He'd been sitting in the dark ever since.

He held the phone in his hand as it rang, considering whether to answer. Finally, he did.

"Yeah."

"Juice. I need you to get to Frank. Right now. I think something's up."

"She doesn't want to see me, Garrett. I'm the last person she wants to see."

"I don't fucking care. She was weird when she left here today. She just left me a weird voicemail, and now she's not picking up. Something's wrong. I can feel it. I can't leave Marnie. Get to her. If you love her, make sure she's okay. Please, man. I can feel it."

He was already in the carport when Garrett finished talking. "I'm on my way."

-oOo-

He rode as fast as he could the entire way and made his best time ever. Even before Juice turned onto her block, he could see flashing lights, and his stomach sank. When he turned the corner and saw the ambulance, a fire truck, and a police cruiser outside her building, the fear he felt almost knocked him off his bike. He pulled up and jumped off, barely taking time to remove his helmet. He ran to the building, where uniformed men were milling about.

As he ran up on the sidewalk, EMTs came out of the building rolling a stretcher. It was hard to see in the dark and flashing colored lights, and with all the gear, but Juice knew it was Frank. That tiny frame, the honeyed strawberry hair. _Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus._

He also saw a small, trim man in snug jeans and a silk t-shirt talking to a cop. Juice had only met him a few times, but that was Martin. He went up to him and the cop.

"What happened? Martin, what happened?"

Both the cop and Martin turned to him. The cop took in his kutte and started posturing right away, but Martin put his hand on Juice's arm. "This is her young man, officer."

He pulled Juice closer. He looked drawn and tired. Just then, the ambulance flipped on its siren and pulled away. Juice took a step in the direction it was headed, but Martin clutched his arm. "They're taking her to the UCSF Medical Center. Juice, I think she tried to kill herself. I'm sure the officer will let you go there now, and find you there if he has questions. Right, officer?"

The cop was still staring at Juice, but he nodded. "Don't go anywhere else."

He nodded and turned back to run to his bike.

Martin kept hold of his arm for one more second. "I'll see you there, and I'll explain what I know."

-oOo-

They wouldn't tell him anything at the hospital. They asked him a bunch of questions, but he didn't have many answers. Then they directed him to a waiting room. As soon as he could, he called Garrett, who picked up immediately.

His voice was low, as if he was trying not to disturb someone. Juice guessed Marnie was sleeping. "Juice. Is she okay?"

"You need to get here. She's at UCSF Medical Center. She tried to kill herself."

"Fuck! Fuck!" He was no long trying to be quiet. "I'm coming. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Juice put his phone away and sat down, put his head in his hands, and waited.

Martin came into the waiting room after about half an hour. Juice was wrapped in worry and self-flagellation and didn't notice him until he'd sat down next to him and patted him on the back.

"Any word yet?"

Juice looked up. "No. Nothing. What happened?"

"I don't know. She sent me an email resigning at the gallery. It caught me very much by surprise, especially since she'd sent me a text earlier saying she was back from her trip, her sister-in-law was having a baby, and she'd be at work as soon as possible. I tried to call her, but I didn't get an answer. I read the email over a few times, and every time I read it, it seemed more unsettling. Finally, I went to her apartment. Her lights were on, but she didn't answer the door. I panicked, frankly, and called 911."

Martin took a deep breath before he continued. "They wouldn't let me go up when they broke in her door, so I don't know more. I heard them talking about an overdose, though."

Juice sat there quietly. This was his fault. Jesus. For as long as he'd loved her, he'd been hurting her. He should just go. She'd broken up with him. She'd ended it. She was right. He should go and stay away from her. Maybe then she could get healthy. Be happy.

He would. He would go. After he talked to her one more time.

-oOo-

Juice was pacing the room when Garrett came flying in about an hour later. Frank's big brother stormed in and slammed his hands into Juice's chest, pushing him backwards. Juice was both surprised and unwilling to fight back, so he ended up slammed against the wall.

Seemed fitting.

"_What the fuck did you do to her? What the fuck did you do?"_

The list was too long. It was everything. What he'd done to her was love her. What he'd done to her was be in her life at all. He knew that wasn't really what her brother, his friend, was asking, so Juice simply said, "I'm sorry. Garrett, I'm sorry."

Garrett let him go, his burst of anger expended. "Damn, Juice." He took a breath. "Do we know anything?"

"Not yet—but you're family. Maybe they'll tell you more."

Garrett nodded and went looking for a doctor or nurse. Juice and Martin—who was still there, waiting—sat down again. They didn't speak. Juice, though, wondered why Martin was there. He didn't realize that he'd become close enough with Frank to sit vigil in a hospital waiting room.

Garrett came back in. He looked pale—scared. Juice and Martin stood. "She took Vicodin, washed it down with _your_ fucking Jack Daniels." He glared at Juice. Juice knew about the Vicodin—they'd found an empty pill bottle from this very pharmacy. He had told the attending physician here that to his knowledge she'd never taken any—she didn't like the way narcotics made her feel.

"They pumped her stomach and did other medieval shit to her to get out what they could. She'd puked—that's good, it got more out of her—but she breathed some of it into her lungs." He paused, and his voice shook when he spoke the next part. "She went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. She's on a respirator. She's unconscious. They told me her condition is 'serious but stable.' I think it means she could really die from this."

He looked at Juice, now with fear and sadness. Juice could feel a similar look shaping his own features. "Fuck, man. She could die." His face contorted, and he started to sob.

Juice put his hand on his friend's shoulder. Then Garrett stepped forward, and they ended up in a hug. Juice let his own tears come.

When they stepped apart, Juice asked, "When can we see her?"

Garrett shook his head. "Not for awhile, I guess. They have more shit to do to her. The doctor said someone will come out when they know more." Juice started to turn back toward the bank of seats, but Garrett stopped him. "I'm sorry for coming at you like that. You're not the only one at fault. I am, too. I told you to send her here. I told you she'd be better off away from Charming—and you. I was wrong. She's been nothing but fucked up since she came here." He glanced at Martin. "Sorry. I know you've been helping her here."

Martin patted Garrett on the shoulder. "Don't apologize, son. You're right. She's been very unhappy. She's a brilliant young talent, but she's never felt like she's made a place for herself in our little community. I agree that this was a mistake for her."

Garrett was regarding Martin with a kind of interest. He gestured at the seats, and all three sat down together. Garrett asked Martin, "Is there any way she could still do the art thing here while she lived in Charming? Or will what happened tonight hurt her chances either way?"

"No, unfortunately, what happened tonight won't be a problem." He offered a smile tinged with regret.

Juice jumped in, suspicious. "Unfortunately? Odd word to use there."

"I mean unfortunately because it's one of the least attractive features of the art world. We are a community of very wealthy vultures. People want their artists to be tortured. There is a dollar value to psychic pain. Frank has been getting noticed already. She's sold four works in a few months. There's a serious buyer for at least one other. That's an impressive debut. People are starting to talk about her. Her . . . _eccentricities_ have been assets in this regard. Attempted suicide will increase interest in, and thus the value of, her work. She'll be able to sell, I think, wherever she lives."

"That's disgusting!" Garrett was furious, his hands shaking.

"Indeed it is. But for the purposes of answering your question, there's no reason for her not to move away from the city. It shouldn't have an impact on the financial value of her work. I can't say what impact it might have on her artistic production, of course."

Garrett nodded. "Okay. So, we need to get her stuff and get her back to Charming. Juice, it's not a good idea for her to move back in with you. I don't know what's going on with you two, but you need to work it out first, if you can. I'll move her in with me. She can help with the baby."

Garrett and Martin continued talking, making arrangements for moving Frank back to Charming, figuring out how often she'd have to come into the city. Planning her life for her.

Juice had been a disaster in that regard from the beginning, so he kept his mouth shut. But he listened. He knew that Garrett needed to plan for the next step so that he didn't have to face the possibility that there would be no next step. But something was occurring to Juice as he listened. Finally, he had to say something.

"Guys? Guys, wait. Do you see what we're doing here? We're sitting here planning out her life for her. Like she's a five-year-old starting school. Don't you think that's how she ended up here in the first place—other people pushing her in one direction or the other? We should ask _her_ what she wants. Let her decide. It's her life. She's a grown woman. She's twenty-thr—" The word died in his mouth, his tongue glued to the roof. He looked at Garrett. Garrett's eyes went wide. Juice corrected himself. "Twenty-_four_ years old."

The baby had been born on Frank's birthday. Nobody had noticed.

-oOo-

Martin had gone for coffee and to make some phone calls, and Garrett and Juice were in the waiting room. Juice was pacing again. Garrett had just gotten off the phone with Marnie and was now staring blankly at a TV in the corner of the room, tuned to a sports station showing an old NASCAR race. Juice passed the doorway and turned for his next lap, and he almost crashed into Desi.

"Desi! What are you doing here? How did you—"

Garret spoke up, still sitting in his seat: "I called her. She's the only one who's really been around Frank for the last couple of months. I wanted to find out what she knew. Hi, Desi."

"Garrett." She nodded his direction. Then she turned to Juice and jabbed her finger in his chest. "_You_ should not be here. _You_ should get the hell out of here before she wakes up, because _you_ will be no kind of help to her."

He let her jab him. "Desi, wait. What do you know? What can you tell me? She won't talk to me. I don't know what happened. _What happened_?"

The contempt on Desi's face was toxic. Juice stepped back. "You know what? I'm going to say it right out here in public. You are a cheating piece of shit—which is especially ironic and hypocritical, since _you_ are also a jealous little _prick_."

Garrett was out of his seat. "Is that true, man?"

"I don't remember. I don't." Juice was despondent. He was losing everything. He drooped back against the wall. "I just don't remember."

"Juice, you _apologized_ for it! What are you talking about?"

He gaped at her. "What are _you_ talking about?"

"The big, heartfelt apology for being stupid and fucking everything up? The voicemail you left? That's what I'm talking about."

Too confused to process all this while she was sneering at him, he turned away and ran his hands over his mohawk. He thought hard, assembling the pieces of information he had. Desi and Garrett were silent. When had he left that message? Then he understood, and he turned back to face Desi.

"No—Fuck! I was apologizing for sending her away! I wanted her to move back with me, where she belonged. I was sorry for fucking _that_ up. Jesus Christ!"

Desi's eyes narrowed. "So you don't remember cheating? But you don't seem surprised that you did."

"Somebody in the clubhouse told me they saw a girl coming out of my room. That's all I know. I don't remember doing it at all. I don't know how Frank could have found out."

"Because her knowing about it is so much worse than you doing it? Unbelievable."

There was no way for him to get out of this mess. He'd ruined everything, made the wrong move at every turn. "No! I just—I've been going crazy, because _I_ didn't know about it, and I didn't understand what happened with Frank. How does she know?"

Opening her bag, Desi pulled out her phone. "Here. Let me show you how Frank knows. These came to her phone. I forwarded them to mine in case she did something stupid like destroying the evidence—which, of course, she did." She tapped her phone several times and then handed it to Juice. "There are three of them. Take a good look."

Juice took the phone and scrolled through three photos, each one more damning than the one before. When he saw Neela in Frank's kutte, his stomach lurched. To think he'd felt _sorry_ for that hateful, conniving cunt. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, no." Garrett snatched the phone from Juice and looked for himself. Then he handed the phone back to Desi and punched Juice in the face.

It might well have been the first punch Garrett had ever thrown. Juice was pretty sure, considering the way Garrett was shaking his hand, that his friend was more hurt than he was. But he'd made his point. "Garrett, man, please believe me. I was so drunk I don't remember it happening _at_ _all_. I know that's not an excuse, but if I had any of my right mind at all I would _never_ have done this—and I would _never, ever, ever_, have allowed anyone to touch Frank's kutte! Jesus, man—I _sleep_ with it. It's all I have of her! This makes me sick. I want to fucking eviscerate this bitch!" He was serious, too. If he ever got his hands on her, she'd _wish_ Two-Step was still passing her around, getting who knows what shoved up her various holes.

Garrett stalked away and sat down in the corner, his head in his hands. Juice turned to Desi. He couldn't believe he was going to ask this, but she was his only hope. "Please, Desi. Help me fix this. She trusts you. Help her see that this was an accident. I would never hurt her like this. I don't ever want anybody but her. Please help me."

Desi glared at him for a long time. She opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped as a doctor came into the room, walking between her and Juice.

"Frances Duvall's family?" he asked of no one in particular.

Juice said, "It's Frank."

At the same time, Garrett stood up. "I'm her brother."

The doctor looked at him. "Next of kin? You can make decisions?"

Juice's heart leapt into his throat. Nothing about those questions was good.

-oOo-

It wasn't as dire as Juice feared—or, at least, the dire wasn't as imminent as Juice feared. The doctor started with terrifying questions about organ donation and extreme life-saving measures and DNR orders. Juice was hyperventilating by the time that round of questions was over, and Garrett looked no better off. Desi was sitting quietly off by herself, her eyes closed.

But those questions were just-in-case questions. Frank was still in serious but stable condition. Then the doctor talked about psychiatric holds and commitments and things that Juice knew would freak Frank the fuck out more than anything else.

The net of it: she was an attempted suicide with signs of previous self-injury. If she pulled through, she was facing time in the psych ward. Garrett asked if she could be transferred to St. Thomas for that, to be close to family. The doctor said he'd look into it.

Finally, he told them that, though she was not out of the woods, he expected her to regain consciousness shortly, and they would be able to see her soon thereafter. He explained what they could expect: she would be very pale and very groggy. She would be on a ventilator and unable to speak. And she would be in restraints.

-oOo-

And that's what they saw. Martin stayed back in the waiting room, saying that he didn't want to intrude, that he only wanted to make sure she was okay. The others followed the nurse.

Juice stood in the doorway as Garrett went in first, followed by Desi. He watched Garrett walk up to his baby sister's bedside and kiss her forehead. "Hey, sissy. Happy birthday."

He saw her twitch at Garrett's words. She was trapped in the bed, bound by the tube down her throat, tubes and wires all over her, and by fabric restraints holding her arms and legs in place. She virtually disappeared into the bed, pale and small, overwhelmed by machines and their parts.

He'd thought his heart had been ripped out when she'd sent that text, but it hadn't. He knew it was still there, because it was collapsing now. This was him. His fault. He'd caused her this pain. All of it. He wanted to go in, to touch her and tell her how sorry he was, but he hesitated in the doorway, afraid—to hurt her more, to be hurt more.

But he watched Garrett and Desi loving her, and he wanted her to feel his love, too. He stepped into the room. Garrett looked over and met his eyes coolly; then he turned to Frank. "Sissy, Juice is here. He wants to see you. Do you want that?"

All at once, she was yanking at the restraints, and the beeping of the heart monitor sped up. She'd gone from barely conscious to frantic at the mention of his name.

He had his answer. He would never get the chance to explain. He watched her panicking at the thought of seeing him. He looked at Garrett and Desi and found little sympathy for him in either face. He backed out of the room, colliding with a nurse responding to the alarms going off around Frank.

He left the hospital and returned to Charming.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **I think of this as the beginning of the second "act" of the story. Some time has passed. I wasn't interested in turning this into a "Girl, Interrupted" story; I wrote a lot of that, but it was a digression—this is an SOA story, after all. So we'll skip that part and deal with it in reflection.

I know Frank is a challenging character. She's hard work—she's been hard work since the first chapter of Make Me Right. She's _much_ harder to write than she is to read, I'm absolutely certain. But my love for her is deep and true.

I do almost no outlining or planning of my stories. I follow my characters. The most I have is a hope of where they'll take me, and notes about what's happened already in this timeline in other stories in this AU. I want Frank to get better, be happy, be healthy. I'm holding out a hope that Juice is in her picture, in a positive, healthy way. But I don't know if any of that will happen.

She'll get there when she's ready; I won't force her. Or she'll get somewhere else. Maybe she's ready to get better; maybe she's not. Maybe she thinks she's ready to get better, but she's really not. I don't know. It's her call, not mine. And Juice is running his show, too. I know it seems weird to say I'm not leading a story I'm writing, but it's true.

I do understand if this is too arduous or painful a journey for you to take with us.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

-oOo-

**CHAPTER 11:  
**"Private Idaho," The B-52's

Frank was packed and waiting, staring through the wire mesh embedded in the safety glass of the window. Garrett was picking her up any minute now and taking her back to live in the room she'd grown up in. She felt like she'd been returned to the starting square in a board game. The game of Life—but instead of little plastic cars full of pink and blue "people," this one had little plastic cups full of pink and white pills.

It had been more than three months since she'd woken up in a hospital with a tube down her throat, tied to a bed. The first couple of weeks she'd spent recovering from the overdose and from aspiration pneumonia. They'd kept her restrained for a long time. When she was clear enough to think, she'd lain there marinating in rage. Then she'd spent some time in the psych ward in the same hospital. When she continued to be, as they'd noted in her chart, "combative and uncooperative"—she'd ended up back in restraints more than once—they'd transferred her to a residential facility in Stockton, and here she'd been since.

It took a long time for Frank to give in and do what they wanted. She was fucking sick of giving in and doing what other people wanted. Eventually, though, she got more fucking sick of living in a fish bowl—or a bell jar—and decided that she would try to get out. She still refused to go to group therapy—seriously, there was no way she'd talk about her shit in front of other people; she'd die of old age in here first—but she took the stupid pills. For something to do, something that would look like she was "participating," she even started going to the yoga classes offered in the rec room—though she sucked at the whole savasana thing, never able to manage all that directed relaxation. Leave it to her to suck at what was basically a nap.

And she started to do more than glare for 50 minutes in her private sit-downs with her therapist. Carla. She was very clear—don't call her Dr. Whitmore. Call her Carla. Whatever.

She'd intended to make the right noises and get out of those sessions unscathed, but Carla, it turned out, was good at her job. Once she started talking, Frank ended up spilling no end of shit. She talked about cutting. She talked about goddamn Jordan Elster and his gang rape party. She talked about sex. She talked about art. Somehow she ended up talking about food—and she didn't even have any issues with food other than she didn't think about it, though Carla thought that itself was an issue. She talked about losing her parents and about Garrett taking over for them. She talked about Garrett moving on with a family of his own.

None of that really caused her much distress. She'd only felt the guardedness of the introvert when talking about any of that. The cutting she could discuss matter-of-factly. Indeed, it was her first offering. Everybody knew about it already. Even Jordan wasn't that hard to talk about. She'd swept that shit out of her head fairly well after Garrett found out about it. Talking about her parents' death sucked, but she'd dealt. It was old pain. The hardest to talk about was losing her brother. But she'd done it.

And she'd felt kinda better.

She'd had a few sessions where Garrett was there, too. She thought Carla was looking for some deeply buried strife between them, but there wasn't any. Not from her, anyway. They were good. It was right for him to build a new family. She didn't resent him. She was sad, but it was right. He really was her hero.

Garrett, though, had a lot of guilt. A crazy amount of guilt, actually, and those family sessions had become more about him than her. They were her favorite sessions. She'd gotten to comfort and reassure her big brother, instead of the other way around. For the first time ever.

That made her feel quite a lot better.

What she wouldn't talk about, what she couldn't talk about, was Juice. Without talking about him, she couldn't talk fully about trying to off herself. Which was why she was here. And thus, she'd ended up stuck in here for a long damn time.

She'd won that round, finally, from sheer perseverance. She'd been doing everything else right for weeks. She'd been a good little girl, doing what she was told. Even though the stupid pills made her feel like she was somebody else. And finally, Carla offered a compromise: despite the lack of "breakthrough," she could be discharged under several conditions, among them that she had outpatient sessions twice a week and that she didn't live on her own for at least six months—and only then if Carla cleared her to.

Turned out she was an actual, certifiable—hell, certi_fied_—crazy person who couldn't take care of herself.

And so she was moving back to her princess bed.

That, friends, was what was known in the geek world as a hard reset.

-oOo-

"We'll just be at Gina's, so we can get home really quick. Don't stress, okay? Just call with anything that doesn't seem exactly right."

Frank took her nephew from Marnie and settled him on her shoulder. "Marn, I got it. I know I'm crazy and all, but I can give O a bottle and rock him to sleep. Pretty sure I'm still capable of that. Go have a grownup meal. Stay for dessert, even. I won't break him. Though he and I _have_ been talking about a piercing."

"Frank, I'm not worried about the kid. I know you'll take good care. I'm worried about you. I don't want you to stress." Marnie picked up her purse as Garrett came in, keys in hand.

"I'm good, Marn. I promise. Now go away. We have mischief that needs managing."

As she and Garrett went through the front door on their way to their romantic dinner out, Marnie turned around. "Oh, and piercings are fine, but no ink until he's at least three. Clear?" She winked.

Frank laughed. "Fine. You're so bourgeois."

She'd been living with Garrett and his little family now for about a month. She'd gotten pretty good, she thought, at the aunt thing. It was all she was doing, really—hanging out, helping with the kid. She didn't even do that very much. O was in daycare whenever his parents were at work; neither Garrett nor Marnie trusted her to care for him for a whole day.

That's where she'd landed in her life. Not stable enough to be trusted with the responsibility of wiping a baby's ass or sticking a bottle in his gob for more than two hours at a time. Huzzah.

She got it, though; she wouldn't trust her with a baby, either. But she loved the little hooligan. He was fat and weird looking and cute as hell. He had the Duvall eyes—pale, icy blue. And absolutely no hair, just a big, round, bald head. Frank had a whole new respect for Marnie. He loved Rancid and the Violent Femmes. He liked skanking with her, giggling as he bounced in her arms. She'd been the first one to make him laugh. So she endorsed the having of nephews.

Except for the humiliation of being outed as this much of a basket case, it wasn't too bad living with Garrett and Marnie and O. At first, she'd stayed in, going no farther than the back yard unless she had a therapy session or had to go in for blood work. But she'd started getting antsy. She found a new yoga and dance studio in a strip mall within walking distance—not allowed to drive yet, loony tunes girl might plow into oncoming traffic—so she kept up with the sun salutations and whatever, though she still sucked at the napping part. And then she got to thinking she'd take on one of the dance classes, too. She hadn't danced like that in years, but she'd loved it once.

What she wasn't doing, at all, was painting. She'd sold three more of the pieces with Martin since she'd gone into the hospital, but she had no drive to paint whatsoever. She thought it was the stupid drugs. She painted her emotions. It's all she'd ever done, really. They'd always been right up at the top, jumping up and down on her head, whatever they were. Now they were buried in cotton packing. She knew they were there, she could name the emotion that seemed most present, but it felt indistinct. Colorless.

She hated that severely. She liked her emotions, even the crazy, cutting ones. They made her blood move. She felt smaller, less significant, without them. But everybody else seemed to like her better this way. And going off the stupid meds would get her shipped back to crazytown, especially while they were drawing blood every five damn minutes. So she dealt. And didn't paint.

Lacking that, she really wanted—and she'd been really agitating to Carla and to Garrett for this—to go back to the shop and work. She wanted to _do_ something, something productive, and art wasn't going to be it. And finally, they'd agreed. She was starting back in a couple of days. Ten measly hours a week, never alone, but it was something. Garrett was really worried, considering that Juice was part owner of the weed shop across the street, but Frank knew how to hide if she needed to. Juice wouldn't see her, because she didn't want to be seen.

She had O down for his first bout of sleep for the night and was playing Skyrim when Marnie and Garrett got back for dinner.

Marnie was first in. She plopped next to Frank on the sofa. "Everything go okay?"

Frank finished killing a troll and paused the game. "Yep. Smooth. He took 6 ounces of Marnie juice about an hour ago and then conked out. No authorities were called, I'm sorry to report. He's kind of a square. Disappointing, really.

"Excellent. I'm going to peek in, because I plan to scar my child with my hovering. Then I'm going to bed." She kissed Frank's cheek. "Thanks, Frank."

"Yep. Literally the least I could do, Marn. 'Night."

Garrett grabbed his wife as she walked past and kissed her. It was romantic and sweet. That kind of stuff still got to Frank, though, poking at a raw cavity in her heart. That was the one thing she could still feel acutely, the one thing the meds didn't seem to have dulled—her love for Juice, and with it a keen sense of loss. Seemed like that was just never going to get any easier, no matter what.

It wasn't like she'd forgotten how he'd hurt her. She remembered it all, and it all still hurt. He'd cheated, and fuck, that about killed her—literally. She still got buzzy thinking about those photos. He'd actually hurt her, too, but that wasn't so bad; she'd hit him all the time, so she could have forgiven one angry outburst on his part. The awful part was letting her think something else had happened. He'd lied. She wasn't even sure why that hurt so much, but it was like he knew something about her—about them—that she didn't, and it freaked her out.

The worst pain, though, was the constant burning ache of being sent away—being ignored, disregarded, left alone. For months.

Even with all of that, even knowing full well how bad things had been between them and how weak and small and lost she'd felt since he'd sent her away and held her at arm's length, even so she loved him as much as she ever had, and she missed him. All the time.

She shook off those futile thoughts and started playing again, trying to ignore the snogging across the room. Then Marnie was off down the hall and her brother sat down next to her. She was never going to find this fucking cave if people kept interrupting her. "Talk to me for a minute, sis?"

Yep. This Dark Brotherhood quest was just not going to get done right now. She saved her game and turned off the console and TV. "'Sup, bro?"

"Just checking in, really. I'm worried about this week." He picked up her hand. "I want you to be okay."

"Geez, Garry. I think I can sell comic books and video games for three hours without a psychotic break. Don't be such a worrywart."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "You know it's not the shop I'm worried about, sissy."

No, he was worried the chance she might see Juice. She shrugged. "Can't stay locked up in here forever. If I need to, I'll deal. I'll scamper to the back. You'll be there." She turned on the couch so she could face him directly. "You see him at all?"

He didn't answer right away, which meant yes. "It's okay, Garry. You can still be friends." She was pretty sure she meant it, but it was hard knowing Juice was right on the other side of her brother. She wanted to ask about him, but she was trying to keep that door closed.

"Yeah, I see him. Don't ask me about him, though, okay? I don't want to be in that position. That's trouble."

"I'm not going to ask." But damn, she wanted to. Was he hurting? Was he safe? Had he moved on? Did he think about her? Did he still love her? She thought about the way it had felt to be in his arms, and she took in a shaky breath.

Garrett picked up on it. "Are you sure you're going to be okay, sis? I don't want you to push anything."

"Geez, try to off yourself one lousy time, and everybody thinks you're unstable or something." She laughed; Garrett did not. "I'm ready for this, Garry. I'm likelier to go mental sitting around this house than I am in the shop—even if it _is_ across the street from certain doom. I'll be okay. I'm all medicated and mellow. And you'll be right there with me."

-oOo-

Carla's office was a study in earth tones and natural textiles. Carla herself had a real boho vibe—long batik skirts, loose tunics, and plain flats, her long, thick, silvery grey hair always in a braid down her back, big dangling earrings. The office suited that image. Frank imagined her growing up in some hippie commune on the coast, running around naked with the other kids.

She'd probably been raised in a suburb somewhere, but she had the hippie vibe down.

Frank sat in a rust-red leather chair, across a low rough-hewn oak table from Carla, who sat in an identical chair. This was the setup. No couch, no big chair for the doctor, just two girls sitting around dishing.

Yeah, right.

"So, how is work going? How do you feel about being back at the shop?" Frank had worked three days, a total of nine whole hours. She was almost like a grownup.

"It's good. The same as it ever was, except now we have four other employees and the shop is doing decent business. It's good."

They "chatted" like that for awhile. That was Carla's game—seemingly harmless questions that always somehow ended up with some kind of disclosure on Frank's part—or, at least, with the recognition that she was headed toward some kind of disclosure unless she made a hard turn. She was getting better at the game, though, and was better able to make those turns without Carla noticing that they weren't headed where she wanted them to be.

Sometimes, Carla just grabbed the wheel and got to the point, though. "Are you doing any painting yet?"

Frank took a breath. This talk track pissed her off. She wanted to be painting. It was a huge loss to her not to feel that drive. And she bloody well knew why it was gone. "Nope. And I won't as long as I have to take the stupid meds. I can't paint if I can't feel."

"You sound angry right now—isn't that feeling?" Carla leaned forward a little in her rusty red seat.

Frank laughed, "Oh, Carla. This isn't angry. This is barely irritated. My angry looks a lot different from this."

Smiling, Carla nodded. "Yes, well. I've seen what unmedicated angry looks like on you. You're telling me that's preferable? It got you restrained. Repeatedly."

"Yeah. I'm telling you it's preferable. As long as there aren't assholes with restraints hanging around." She sat back in the chair, her arms crossed, one leg crossed over the other, her blue Doc swinging. Those boots were looking a little raggedy these days.

"Frank. Going through life without a guardrail around your emotions—that's not healthy. It's exhausting and destructive. You can't build anything lasting when you're always kicking it down."

"I had a life. I was building something. It wasn't a big deal, but it was okay. I liked it." She was surprised at how quiet her voice was when she said that.

"And you tried to end it."

"No, not that life. The one I had before—" Holy shit. Goddamn it. Fucking Carla.

"Before what, Frank?" Carla hadn't moved. She was sitting perfectly still, like a hunter trying not to spook her prey as she lined up the kill shot.

"No. Nothing. No."

"I know you think you're protecting yourself by locking everybody out. But what you've really done is lock yourself in alone with the monster. It's the rescue you've locked out."

Frank glared stonily. She knew that Carla knew about Juice. She probably knew just about everything Frank could say about all that. Carla had spoken to Garrett more than once. So she had a very good idea what Frank's damage was. Frank found it all the more irritating that her agenda was so transparent.

Carla was looking at her like she expected a response. Finally Frank muttered, "I thought you said I needed to save myself."

"Frank, think. _You save yourself by opening the door_."

Frank huffed. "Wow. You wrote reams of shitty poetry in high school, didn't you?" She looked away.

Now Carla sat back with a sigh. "Okay, Frank. You know what we need to talk about. The longer you hold out, the longer I hold out. There are things you want—to be able to drive, to work more, to have your own place. Not to have to see me so often. Right? None of that happens unless we get you through this block."

"You're _leveraging_ me? Right out in the open?"

"Psychotherapy isn't all touchy-feely hugs, m'dear. My job is not to kiss your booboos. It's to help you realize your strength. Sometimes the best way to do that is to test it." A little brass clock chimed its alarm. "Okay, that's 50. Here's what I think. I think Juice should come to one of your sessions—the next one, if we can arrange it."

Frank's heart raced at the mere thought. She had not lain eyes on Juice in four months. But she missed the fuck out of him, and she could not handle the thought of him being in this place, of all places. "No fucking way. Absolutely not. He's here, I'm not."

"You need to deal with this, Frank. It's time. I believe you're strong enough, but your progress is stalling out. I know you don't want that. This is a safe space—the safest space—for you to face what you're afraid of."

Carla was wrong; there was no safe space. She wasn't ready—fuck, she would never be ready. "No. Fucking. Way."

"The terms of your release were specific. Follow the treatment plan. My treatment plan. This is the next step on that plan."

God, she was so damn sick of being threatened with going back! "He won't come, anyway. I haven't seen him in months. I'm not his concern."

Carla met her eyes and held them. "I am confident that he'll come."

What the fuck did that mean? How the fuck would she know that? Had she _talked _to Juice already? She had; she must have. Frank jumped out of her chair, her fists clenched at her side. Ah, here was actual anger. "You bitch. Fucking _bitch_. I won't do it. No fucking way."

"Our time's up today, Frank. I'm going to make the arrangements. I'll see you next week." She stood up and walked behind her desk. She sat down there and began typing on her laptop, ignoring Frank, who stood in impotent fury for a few more seconds and then stormed out.

-oOo-

She skipped the next two sessions—ditching the session after Garrett dropped her off, like a kid playing hooky. After the second one, Carla called and made a very specific, clearly worded threat. It was enough; Frank didn't want to go back to the wire mesh windows and plastic cups of pills.

Even so, she was late to the next session. Garrett had dropped her off in plenty of time, and she'd firmly sent him on his way after he tried to insist he go in with her. They'd had a pretty big fight, but she'd won, and he'd left her to go in on her own. But she'd seen Juice's Dyna in the lot, and she'd had a lot of trouble making herself go into the elevator and up to Carla's floor. She finally did it, though, and the receptionist brought her right in.

He was sitting in one of the leather chairs; he stood as soon as she came in. He wasn't wearing his kutte. He had an awful black eye, a cut across his nose, and a stitched cut on his jaw. He was beautiful. He smiled that fucking amazing smile and beamed so much love at her she thought she'd keel over. Her heart was pounding a syncopated beat in her chest. _Jesus_, what would this have felt like if she hadn't been on the stupid pills? What had it felt like before?

"Hey, baby," he said.

She immediately started to sob, standing there with her hand on the doorknob, the door still open to the other patients in the waiting room.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Backtracking a little to see what's been going on with Juice these past four months or so. But we'll get back to that scene in the therapist's office by the end of this chap.

Thanks to the freaks for the big, group beta!

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. The rest? Yeah, that's mine.

-oOo-

**CHAPTER 12:  
**"I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down," Elvis Costello

If he'd had any doubt—he'd hadn't, but if he'd had—that he loved her as completely as ever, it would have been allayed at once when she was again, finally, standing just a few feet in front of him. She was everything. He would love her always. He needed to find a way to be as good for her as she was for him. She deserved somebody much better than he'd been.

-oOo-

The last four months or so had been a blur of pain and malaise. At first, when she was still so sick, and Garrett was still too angry to talk to him at all, Juice had spent his days in a kind of frantic stasis, adrenaline coursing through his body, but unable to do almost anything at all. He was incredibly worried about her, and he felt incredibly guilty. Well, fuck—he _was_ guilty. He thought maybe he might be going crazy himself. He'd holed up in his house, eating Frank's ramen, and hadn't even answered the prepay, until Chibs practically knocked his door down and dragged him back to the clubhouse.

He didn't want to be at the clubhouse. Nothing there had been good for him, or for Frank, in a long time. But there was a lot for him to do, and that got him moving again. He was doing his job, though, nothing else. He worked in the garage, he went to church, he did his intel and tech stuff, and he went home. He went on runs when he was asked. He stayed away from the Friday parties. He wanted nothing to do with the Crow Eaters. He'd stopped drinking; his brothers were noticing and starting to comment. They didn't know about Frank yet; they still thought she was just living away. So they were just giving him shit about being whipped and pining after his girl. It hurt, but he took it without complaint.

-oOo-

Garrett was not a guy to hold a grudge. He was still Juice's friend; that was something. It felt a little like they were sneaking around on Frank, somehow, but Juice was glad not to have lost everything. They hung out at the shop, talking and playing games in the back. It was like old times, almost.

And it was a small way to stay connected to Frank. Garrett wouldn't talk about her in any detail at all, but he told him when she was leaving the hospital. So he knew she was getting better.

And, when she was ready to come back to work, they had a serious conversation. Garrett wanted to make sure that Juice stayed away, so he set a clear schedule for when Juice could come to the shop. The schedule of when it was safe to come over also told Juice when she'd be there, and he felt a powerful pull to see her, but he was not about to risk hurting her by stalking her again. He would stay away until she wanted to see him. If she never wanted to see him, he'd stay away forever. He was just glad to know that she was maybe going to be okay.

-oOo-

She was still his old lady. If he never saw her again, if she never wanted anything more to do with him, he couldn't imagine being with anyone else. He still slept with her kutte; even though it now had painful associations, it was a piece of her. He wondered if it was wrong of him to keep it, but he doubted that she'd want it back—not now, not after everything.

He'd realized recently that he'd developed a little tic, rubbing his hand over his heart. Where her mark was on him. He did it a lot—whether he was fully clothed and wearing his kutte or shirtless, he found himself absent-mindedly rubbing the place where she'd marked him. It gave him comfort. He was hers; whether she wanted him or not, whether he was worthy of her or not, he was hers. Always.

-oOo-

Eventually, inevitably, the Sons found out what was going on with Frank. Juice suspected Gemma. That woman seemed to know everything, and even though she wasn't actually any Son's old lady anymore and certainly not the queen of the clubhouse—she was with Nero now, and Tara was officially top of the female food chain—Gemma still seemed to know everything and run the show. Or think she did, at least. It took a few months, but by the time Frank was back home and starting back at the shop, Juice was the guy who'd literally driven his old lady crazy.

Suicide was weakness for which the Sons had no tolerance. Juice knew this firsthand. But they had a different attitude about women, whom they expected to be weak. So the blame from his brothers fell on him—where it in fact belonged. Sons didn't, as a rule, mix themselves in other Sons' private family lives, but they had great contempt for a man who didn't take care of his family. Juice had failed his family spectacularly.

He had always felt like he was on the outside edge of the club—loved as a brother but not really respected, the black sheep. He had more trouble with the violence than the rest of the club. He felt things more keenly, and he cried easily, relatively speaking. His rap sheet was different from those of his brothers. He wasn't a thug. He'd made a different kind of trouble.

He was one of the more valuable Sons because of his tech skills, and he knew he was practically indispensable. There just weren't that many hackers who could deal with the other aspects of life as a Son; geeks tended to like their violence pixelated. He was such a rare breed, in fact, that he was always getting lent out, either virtually or physically, to other charters to help them with their tech needs. He was needed, and for that he was appreciated.

He was great with the virtual world, but he had trouble in the real one—especially the real one he'd ended up living in. He just thought differently, and he was often a frustration to his brothers. He'd barely escaped disaster last year, when the Feds leaned on him to rat. Only Chibs knew anything at all about that, but since then, he'd felt especially precarious.

His brothers thought he was a fuckup. And, in the real world, he often was.

But not until they'd learned about what happened to Frank did his brothers actually look on him with contempt. No longer just eye-rolling but affectionate frustration. Now it was disgust.

Tig was the worst. Ironic as hell, since Tig was an absolute fucking freak and did all kinds of bizarre, abusive shit to the women he fucked. But Tig and Juice had never gotten along. Tig hated Juice, in fact—didn't think he was Sons material. And, ever since Tig had gotten Frank drunk at her graduation party, Juice had hated him just as much.

One day, Juice was walking through the clubhouse, on his way to the office. He was distracted; he'd just gotten a surprising call from Garrett. Frank's therapist wanted Juice to go to one of Frank's sessions. Maybe more, depending on what happened. He'd said yes immediately, of course, and it was more than the idea of seeing her again—even talking to her!—that compelled him. If he could help her, he would do anything. Absolutely anything.

Still, that request had come right out of the blue, and he was feeling dazed and preoccupied.

Tig, Hap, and Phil were sitting at the bar. Tig was giving Hap shit about being whipped—Viv was very pregnant, and Hap was heading home to take care of her instead of drinking with his buddy—and Hap was pushing right back. Juice wasn't really paying attention. But as he walked by, Tig raised his voice and said, "You know what, you're right. Go pamper little mama. Yeah, take care of yours. Better than driving your old lady straight to the nuthouse. Takes a special kind of asshole for that, right Juice?"

Juice wheeled around. "Fuck you, Tig. Should I take care of mine like you take care of yours? Maybe like you took care of Dawn? Asshole."

Tig dove for him—really dove, head first, stretched out—and they landed across one of the tables, tipping it over. They hit the floor with a crash. Then they just tore at each other. Jax came storming out of the chapel, and he and Hap pulled them apart.

His arms locked around Juice's chest, Jax yelled, "Jesus Christ! Take it to the ring, assholes. I'm tired of cleaning this shit up. Take it to the ring."

They took it to the ring. Tig had 25 years on Juice and wasn't in near the physical shape Juice was, but he was a much better, more experienced fighter—in the ring and out—and he absolutely beat the shit out of Juice. It wasn't even close. Still, Juice thought it was worth it. He'd bloodied Tig up enough he'd remember it, and he had never enjoyed punching anyone like he'd enjoyed punching Tig fucking Trager.

-oOo-

Frank's doctor was clearly surprised to see Juice come in with a faceful of bruises and cuts when he walked into her office, but she regrouped and said nothing. They'd arranged for him to come in the hour ahead of Frank's session; Dr. Whitmore—Carla—wanted to set some ground rules.

She spent most of the time asking Juice questions, after assuring him that she would never tell Frank what they talked about. Then, as the time for Frank's appointment approached, Carla straightened up in her chair and crossed her arms. "I want to be clear, Juice. My interest is with Frank. This is her therapy. This is not your therapy. This is not couple's counseling. This is not a time for you to cleanse your conscience or assuage your hurts. What we are going to do here is help Frank get what she needs so that she can continue to recover. That means that she talks to you. You answer her questions—and you answer honestly and directly. You don't ask her anything, unless she has invited you to do so. She leads this conversation. If she refuses—if she is silent—then you are also silent. Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Yeah—Doctor, I don't want to do anything to hurt her. I'm not going to do anything to ruin this. I promise."

"Good." She got up and brought her desk chair over to the sitting area, so that the leather chair she'd been sitting in was free for Frank.

"How's she doing, Doc?"

"If she wants you to know, she'll tell you."

The time for Frank's appointment came and went. Juice and her doctor sat in awkward silence and waited. Frank never showed. They waited the whole 50 minutes. Eventually Carla started doing paperwork, and Juice got his phone out and played a game on it. When the brass clock chimed, Carla sighed. "Would you be willing to try again at her next session?"

Juice smiled. "Doc, I'll come every day and sit here all day if it will help her. So yeah, I'll be here. Just tell me when."

-oOo-

He stood when he saw her. He couldn't have stayed seated to save his life. It was all he could do to stand pat. He was so fucking glad to see her. The stitches in his face stretched painfully, but he couldn't control his grin.

God, she looked good. Really good. It was the first time he'd seen her up close in months. She'd filled out—she was still thin, and so small, but there was a softness to her frame he hadn't seen in ages. Maybe ever. Her hair was growing out; she even had it back in a ponytail. She'd let it all grow in, and he was sorry the binary tat on the back of her head was covered, but her hair was full, reddish gold, and gorgeous. She was wearing jeans and black All-Stars, and a plain white oxford shirt. She was wearing her black horn rims, too. She looked so fucking good.

"Hey, baby." It came out unbidden. He knew he was supposed to stay quiet until she spoke. He caught a movement from Carla out of the corner of his eye; she'd turned to look at him. He kept looking at Frank. He'd do better. He didn't want to fuck this up.

But then she was crying. Really crying, standing in the doorway, not yet all the way in the room. He wanted so badly to go to her, hold her, comfort her.

Carla spoke first. "Come on, Frank. Come sit down." She grabbed a box of tissues off her desk and held it toward Frank, who pulled a couple out and sat down. Carla set the box on the oak table.

Once she had control of herself, Frank glared at Carla. "I fucking hate you."

Carla cocked her head a little. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything you'd like to say to Juice? Anything you'd like to ask?"

For a long, awkward moment during which Juice focused all his energy on being still and quiet, Frank looked down at the tissues in her hand. Without looking up, she asked, "What happened to your face?"

Juice looked at Carla, who nodded. "Fight with Tig. He won."

Frank nodded, still looking down, her hands now wringing the wet tissues into a pulpy mass. "You look like shit."

That wasn't a question. Juice didn't know what to do with it, so, again, he looked at Carla, who, again, nodded. "Yeah. Chibs patched me up, so I'll probably have a nasty scar."

"So you're still a Son?"

"What? Yeah."

"You're not wearing your k—your kutte." She tripped over the word. He thought immediately about her kutte and assumed she'd done the same.

"I just didn't think it was right to wear it here, that's all. It's in my saddlebag. I'm still a Son."

She nodded. She still wasn't looking up. And now she was quiet for an uncomfortably long time. Minutes. Then, still looking down, and in a tiny, barely audible voice, she asked, "Are you doing okay?"

He looked at Carla again, but this time she gave him nothing. He didn't know what to do with that question. No, he was not fucking okay. But how would telling her that help her?

Then he remembered that one of Carla's rules was that he answer Frank's questions honestly and directly. So that's what he did. "No, I'm not. I miss you."

She looked up quickly then and finally met his eyes with hers. Those astonishing, eerie eyes of hers. "What?"

His heart ached. "I miss you, baby." She made a little sobbing, gaspy sound, and he worried that he shouldn't have said it. He looked at Carla, who was now watching Frank.

"Do you love me?" She was staring at him steadily now. It was her defiant look; she was daring him to tell her the truth.

"Frank . . ." He didn't know what the right answer was. He didn't want to do or say anything that would make this harder for her. He wanted to be a help, _only_ a help to her. For once. But Carla had told him to be direct and honest. And it occurred to Juice then that he'd hardly ever thought first about being direct and honest with her. His habit had been to try to figure out the best way to couch things to avoid a fight.

He'd been quiet too long. Carla was looking at him. Frank's look was getting steadily more closed. She muttered, "Forget it. Stupid question."

"It's not a stupid question. I'm stupid. God, Frank. Yes, I love you. I love you so much."

Her eyes got wide, but she crossed her arms, the remains of the tissues still clasped in one fist. "What if I don't love you?"

The lump already in his throat grew huge. He swallowed and coughed it away. He didn't want to cry here. "I understand why you wouldn't. I've fucked everything up. It wouldn't change the way I feel, though. Always—I mean that."

She hadn't looked at Carla even once since she'd started talking to Juice. Now, she turned to face him directly, and he began to think she'd forgotten there was anyone in the room besides the two of them. "Why did you fuck somebody else, then? Why did you give her _my fucking kutte_? How the fuck is that _love_?"

He looked at Carla. Was she just going to be a spectator? It seemed too fast or something to be talking about that awful thing. He didn't know what he should say. Should he explain? Fully? Should he apologize? He wasn't here to clear his conscience, but Frank was demanding he do just that. Carla was no help; she was watching Frank and ignoring him.

"Don't look at her. She's a manipulative bitch. You don't need her fucking permission to answer my question. You say you love me. Well thanks, asshole. Your love sucks. All you fucking do is tear me up. So answer my damn question and let me free."

With every word she said, he got more confused about how he should respond, and Carla was obviously not going to intervene. He went with direct and honest, realizing again that it was a whole new way to talk to her. He'd need to think about that later.

"I don't know what to say, Frank. I missed you so much. I got drunk off my ass. I made a huge fucking mistake. I don't remember it _at all_. I absolutely did not give her your kutte. I know I didn't. There's no amount of drunk that would have let that happen. That was her, fucking with you, and I want to kill her for it. Those pictures made me sick. I'm so fucking sorry."

"You fucked her because you missed me? Are you serious?"

"No! I got _drunk_ because I missed you. For awhile there, I was getting pass-out drunk every night, so I could deal. She was an accident—I was too drunk to know what was happening. But I'm not drinking anymore. At all." He took a breath and said the other thing he was thinking. "If you want to be free of me, I understand. I will do what I can to help you, but I will love you anyway. Always. Being apart from you is killing me slowly, Frank."

Now, desperation clear on her face, she looked at Carla, who remained mute. Juice didn't understand how this fight, which in some ways felt really fucking familiar, could possibly be helpful to anyone.

Realizing that Carla wasn't going to help, Frank turned back to Juice. "Jesus, asshole. That's your fault. You sent me away. I wanted to stay. You know what I had here? I had a life. I had family. I thought I had love. You know what I had there? Nothing. Not one damn thing. I fucking hated it."

He was all set to apologize. Again. Not that his apologies were worth shit. And then, a question occurred to him. He almost set it aside immediately; it seemed like a really dickish thing to ask. But he asked. "Why didn't you come home, then? Why were you waiting for my permission?"

She jerked like he'd slapped her, and then she just sat there, blinking, her mouth slightly open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carla shift in her seat. He turned to see that she was sitting forward, as if something interesting had just happened.

Frank finally found her voice. "Fuck you, asshole. You don't get to say that. You did nothing but manage my life."

"You're right. I see that now. And I really am sorry about it. I was trying to take care of you, but I did it wrong. I know that. But you did nothing but let me. Seriously, Frank, you love to tell me to fuck off. Why didn't you tell me off then? Why did you go?"

She just gaped at him for long seconds, breathing heavily. Then she turned to Carla. "Time's up. I'm done. Fuck you both." She got up and walked out.


	13. Chapter 13

Another shout-out to **MuckyShroom**. She'll know why.

And big thanks to **Simone Santos**, for her last minute beta and anxiety-assuaging.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. Everything else is mine.

-oOo-

**CHAPTER 13:  
**"Giving Me a Chance," Gotye

Frank ran out onto the sidewalk and pulled out her phone to call Garrett. He wasn't due to pick her up for twenty minutes, but she sure as fuck wasn't going to be standing here waiting when Juice came out. Her heart was pounding. Her head was spinning. She hadn't felt like this in months. Again she wondered how much more intense this would have been without the pills.

One thing: she wasn't buzzing. She was upset, and she was angry, but she was in control.

She still hated the stupid pills, but right now, in this one specific moment, she understood how they made things a little easier. It wasn't worth what she'd lost, but she understood.

Garrett answered. "Garry, I need you here right now. Right now, or I'm walking."

"Sissy, wait—don't walk. You're fifteen miles from home! What's going on?"

"Don't play stupid. You know what? I'm walking now. Find me on the road. Or don't. Whatever." She ended the call, shoved her phone in her pocket, and headed through the parking lot to the road.

-oOo-

She was walking on the shoulder, perfectly prepared to walk the whole damn way. But fuck! She had a fucking car! She was so sick of being treated like a sweaty stick of dynamite. Fuck everybody. _Everybody_.

She heard the bike coming up behind her and knew exactly who it was—_shit_—but she didn't turn around. Juice pulled alongside her, slowing down until he was practically idling and walking the bike. "Frank, what are you doing?"

She didn't answer or acknowledge his presence in any way. She kept walking. "Baby, come on. You can't walk all the way. I'll take you." He pulled up a bit and turned to block her way.

She stopped and glared at him. He was wearing his kutte now. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He didn't move out of her way, so she walked around his bike and kept going. He came back alongside her. They carried on that way for several minutes, Frank walking on the shoulder, Juice riding slowly alongside her, weaving the bike for balance. Cars passed them. Nobody honked or caused a stink, though. People around here had a healthy respect for a SAMCRO kutte.

"What the fuck are you doing, asshole?"

"You don't want to ride, fine. But I'm not leaving you alone to walk on the shoulder of a highway all the way back to Charming. I'm staying right here."

She was fucking surrounded by people telling her what to do. Speaking of which, where was fucking Garrett? "You're _still_ managing me? Moron."

"I'm not managing you. You want to walk, walk. I'm just riding over here. Free country."

"Asshole."

He laughed. He fucking _laughed_. Where the fuck was Garrett?

Another several minutes, and her phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket. "Where the fuck are you, Garry?"

"Sorry, sissy. I'm not going to be able to pick you up. Looks like you do need to walk."

She stopped. Juice pulled over. "_What_? Garrett, what the fuck?"

"Sorry—I'll see you at home." He ended the call. Frank stared at the phone in her hand. Garrett was leaving her to walk fifteen miles? That didn't even make sense. Everyone around her had lost their minds. And she was the crazy one?

"Frank, you okay?" She looked up to see Juice in her path again. Shit. It was a long fucking way back. She turned and looked back the way she'd come. She looked forward again. Shit.

"Do you even have another helmet?"

Fuck that fucking smile. "I got yours, baby." He leaned back and pulled her helmet out of a saddlebag. He held it out to her, but he didn't let go right when she grabbed it. She yanked harder, and he released his hold, still grinning like a fool.

She strapped the helmet on her head and, her heart in her mouth, mounted the bike behind him. He didn't pull away, though. "What are you waiting for?"

He looked over his shoulder at her. "You know you have to hold on, Frank. Hold on to me."

The thought of putting her hands on him made her feel woozy. This was dangerous fucking territory she was in, and she still hadn't even begun to try to sort out what had happened in Carla's office. She was confused and exhausted. And still pissed. She and Garry were going to have _such_ a talk.

She swallowed and put her hands on Juice's hips. He sat there for a few more seconds, his head cocked a little. Then he patted her hand and pulled onto the road.

She tried not to think about his body under her hands. She tried, but she failed. Then he took a sharp turn. He didn't take it especially fast, but she'd never ridden double with him without her arms wrapped tightly around him, and she felt surprisingly precarious gripping only his hips. It scared her enough that she'd shifted and pulled up against him, her arms around his waist, before she'd thought about it. It surprised him, too, he bumped the throttle and the engine revved a little.

And now her head was dominated by thoughts of him, his body between her legs, his amazing abs flexing under her arms and hands. Fuck; she should have just walked.

He said he still loved her. What did that mean? Did it matter? He said he didn't remember sleeping with that woman. Did that change anything? When she'd left Charming, she'd been ready to give him permission, but he hadn't wanted it. Would she have felt different if he'd accepted her offer?

She needed to stop trying to think until she was off this fucking bike. Not much longer now; they were in Charming proper. She briefly thought about telling him to pull over here, so she could walk the last mile or so, but she didn't.

He pulled up into Garrett's driveway. As soon as the bike stopped, she was off. She took off the helmet and shoved it into his chest. "Thanks for the ride." She walked toward the house.

"Frank, wait!"

She stopped, considering whether it would be best to ignore him and go inside or turn around and see what he wanted. Eventually, she took a breath and turned. "What?"

He was astride his Dyna, his hands on his thighs. Bruised and stitched, he still looked so fucking hot. He took off his sunglasses to peer at her with his dark, beautiful eyes. "Where are we? You and me? Are you with me?"

She was so tired—she was _weary_. It hadn't even been two hours since she'd walked into Carla's office, but it felt like days. Longer. She sighed. "I have no fucking idea."

With that, she turned and went into her brother's house.

-oOo-

It was a few hours before Garrett came home. Frank was in her room, not in the mood for people. She heard him come into the house, but she didn't bother to get up. Once she was away from Juice, she decided she didn't have the energy for a fight with her brother. It just wasn't that important.

But then he knocked on her door. "Sis, can I come in?"

"Yeah." He opened the door slowly, as if he was afraid she was going to start throwing things at his head.

"Sorry about today."

"No, you're not. You knew there was someone else to give me a ride, didn't you?"

He didn't answer right away—did people not understand that that itself was an answer? "Jesus. I feel like a fucking puppet, and everybody I know has a string. I thought everybody wanted me to stay away from Juice. Now everybody is forcing us together. And you all think I'm crazy. Well, no fucking wonder."

He'd come all the way into her room and was now sitting on the end of her bed. "Sorry, sis. I was coming down the road, and I saw him riding alongside you, and . . . I don't know. It seemed like a good idea. It went badly?"

She wasn't mad anymore. She barely cared. She should care—this was worth caring about, being manipulated left and right. Fucking pills. But somehow, Juice broke right through the cotton packing. Where he was involved, she could still feel everything. What did that mean? "It was confusing."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just—" She realized that she didn't want to tell him anything more. "Nothing. Weird day."

He stood up and came over to where she was sitting, at the little study desk she'd done her homework on as a kid. "Hey—are you drawing?"

She was holding a sketchbook and pen. "No. Writing."

She'd never been a writer. She'd done fine in all her English classes and any other class for which she'd had to write, but it had never been something she'd thought to do unless asked. But she'd been lying on her bed this evening, thoughts of Juice and the session and the ride pinballing around her head, and she needed to do something. She'd opened her sketchbook to try to draw it out.

But that went nowhere, of course. Fuck, it hurt not to be able to draw. She couldn't even make herself. Not even something easy, with a model, like a still life. She could make the shapes and create an image, but it might as well have been a doodle. Everything she drew or painted was just lifeless. It hurt.

She'd sat there with the sketchpad and pen in her hands, mourning the loss of art. Without thinking about it, she'd scrawled "FUCK" across the latest failed sketch. She'd done it again. And then, for no reason she could discern, she'd written a sentence. And another. When Garrett knocked on her door, she was on the fourth page, writing feverishly, almost without stop. She was writing over failed sketches, not on blank pages, so it wasn't all legible, but those pages of her 11x14 sketchpad were full of her handwriting. First she'd written about her meds and losing art, then that had morphed into a reflection about being committed. She'd just started writing about Juice when Garrett interrupted her. Her hand was cramping, and the side of her fist was black from the smudging ink of her art pen.

And her head was quieter. No more pinball. Like she'd moved the thoughts from her brain to the pad. That was how art worked for her, too.

Huh.

"Writing? Really? What are you writing?" Garrett now tried to see her pad, but she clutched it to her chest.

"And I would tell you because . . . ?" Certainly not because she was so full of trust in him right now.

He stood straight and held his hands up. "Okay, sorry. You coming out for dinner? Marnie made a roast or something. I don't know, but it smells good."

Frank sighed and closed the pad. "Yeah, let's eat."

-oOo-

"Can you get free today, sweets? I need a dose of my little Frank."

Frank pulled the phone away from her ear and grinned at it. "Oh, Desi, you're like psychic or something. Yes. You have no idea how awesome that would be. I have a dance class until 11—can you pick me up at noon?"

"Sounds like lunch to me, then. I'll be there."

Not even 24 hours since the session from hell. Somehow, Desi always knew.

She picked Frank up in her apple-red vintage T-bird convertible, wearing a silk headscarf and big round sunglasses. Showing lots of ink, too, she looked like the love child of Grace Kelly and Travis Barker.

Desi grinned at her as she climbed into the car. "You look really good, sweets. You doing okay?"

Frank shrugged and leaned over to kiss Desi's cheek. "I'm good now. Where're we going?"

"You hungry right now, or are you up for a little ride?"

"A ride sounds good—but I need to check in with the warden first. How long do you think we'll be gone?"

Desi gave her a quizzical look before she shrugged, "Say five hours or so, altogether."

Frank texted Garrett and Marnie and told them she was out with Desi and would be home by dinner.

"Still got you on a leash, I see." Desi pulled out of the driveway.

"Yep. Everybody's waiting until my shrink says I'm safe to be on my own. After yesterday, that might be awhile. I think I'm a problem patient."

Glancing over at Frank, Desi said, "Tell you what. Let's talk about that over lunch. I want to give you my full attention. Right now, we have a beautiful, warm, fall day. The top's down, and we're headed to Napa. Let's think happy thoughts. Sound good?"

"That sounds perfect, Desi. Perfect."

To get to the freeway to Napa, they had to drive past T-M. As they were approaching, Frank told herself not to look over. And she didn't—but it didn't matter. The wrecker was parked on the street, and Juice was standing in front of it, in the street, retracting the winch. He looked up as Desi drove by. He was wearing his sunglasses, but Frank knew that he'd met her eyes.

She turned around after they passed and, without thinking about it, lifted her hand. As Desi turned the corner, Frank saw him take a couple of steps forward and raise his hand in answer.

She didn't know what any of it meant.

-oOo-

"You should write a travel guide, Desi. You know the coolest, weirdest places everywhere. Like a Fodor's or Zagat's for the punk crowd."

Desi laughed. "One big flaw with that plan, sweets. No self-respecting punk would ever consult a guidebook."

"Point." They were sitting in a funky little hole-in-the-wall . . . bistro? Diner? . . . place where food was served. It was tiny. The tables and chairs were mismatched. The walls were dense with graffiti and weird mosaic patterns made of shards of mismatched china. And Frank and Desi were the least freaky-looking people in the joint. Napa was not known as a bastion of anti-establishment establishments. It was the swanky hangout of the wealthy and wannabes, with most of the restaurants offering cuisine influenced by the thousands of acres of vineyards producing really expensive wines.

And, truth be told, so was this little dive, where Frank was eating a wild mushroom risotto that was pretty much making her eyes roll back with every bite. So far, this was the best day since . . . well, since the last time she'd had a good day with Desi. France. She'd only seen Desi a handful of times since—and this was the first time since Frank had been released.

Desi took a sip of her wine and leaned forward. "Okay, spill. Tell me what's up."

So Frank leaned forward, too, and told her pretty much everything. Starting with her release and working uncomfortably toward yesterday's session with Juice. Desi sat and listened; she never interrupted.

"He had the gall to fucking ask me why I _let_ him send me away. Fucking asshole! Like I had a choice! And fucking Carla just sat there and let me swing."

She took a long drink of her ice water and sat back with a huff. She didn't say anything yet about the ride home after the session. She needed to take a breather first.

But here Desi spoke up. "What's the answer, though?"

"What?"

"To Juice's question. If you didn't want to go to San Francisco, why did you?"

Frank felt her insides deflating a little. She couldn't lose Desi, too. "Desi, no. Not you, too. Please. I need someone on my side."

Now Desi leaned even father forward, speaking earnestly. "Frank, I've never been anywhere else. You know that, sweetheart. But this seems like an important question. What if you take the first part of the question away and just answer this: why did you go?"

Frank fiddled with her food for a long time. She felt hurt and defensive, but she tried to set that aside. This was Desi. She knew she was on her side. So she asked herself: why had she gone?

She remembered the awful fight they'd had the night he told her to go. She remembered everything he'd said. She _had_ fought. She _had_ said she wouldn't go. But then he'd told her that it was his house, not hers, and he wouldn't let her stay in it. Oh, fuck, that had hurt so bad. It hurt now remembering it. What was she supposed to do?

"He sent me away. He didn't want me. I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Desi grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Those are three really painful, scary things. Are they really true?"

"You think I'm lying? Fuck, Des. What are you doing?"

"I don't think you're lying, sweets. Of course not. I'm asking if there's another way to see what happened. Let's look at the first one. He sent you away."

"Yeah, that's true—obviously. Come on!" She felt like she was being interrogated. Did Desi think she just hallucinated everything? That she was delusional?

"Okay, yeah. Why did he send you away?"

She thought about Lilli. She only knew what Juice had told her—that Lilli had been tortured for hours and killed by people trying to hurt the Sons. He'd come home that night and told her to go.

"He thought it would keep me safe. He's not very bright, obviously. And I didn't care about that. I wanted to have my life with him. It's not like I don't know who he is, what he does."

"I'm not going to argue with that. But if he wanted to keep you safe, isn't that a loving thing?"

Her arms were tight across her chest now. She wanted to go back to Charming. It was like Desi had taken her 70 miles from home to trap her into this confrontation. Every single fucking person in her life was manipulating the shit out of her. "What's your game, Des? Because I don't like it."

"No game, sweets. I don't play games, and you know it. I speak truth, take it or leave it. I'm just wondering if you've thought about it like this. I'm not saying going to San Francisco was the right thing, because I think we're all crystal that it wasn't. I just wonder if there's less blame for Juice here than you thought."

"When did you become Team Juice?"

"I'm not Team Juice. Funny thing: the night that you went into the hospital, he asked me to help him make things right with you. I told him to kiss my tattooed ass. I'm Team Frank. Always have been. But that brings us to point number two: he didn't want you. Frank, is that true?"

"He told me he wouldn't let me stay. And he left me alone in the city for two fucking months. Seems true enough to me."

"Yeah, he's going to have to explain why he stayed away. I personally think he was being weak and cowardly. That was bullshit, no question. He's got a huge pile of bullshit he needs to clean up, in fact. But to say he didn't want you? That's willful denial on your part, Frank. He's been wandering around like a wounded puppy for a year."

She knew that was true. He'd hurt the fuck out of her, but she also knew that he loved her, and she knew he was in pain, too. But that's why it all hurt so damn bad. He sent her away. He abandoned her. He fucked around on her. And it all shocked the hell out of her, because she'd trusted his love to _protect_ her. "Desi, he told me it was his house and he wouldn't let me stay! I had nowhere else to go!"

"You didn't? Not Garrett? Me? Or, better, a new place of your own? And wasn't San Francisco an opportunity for something good? Some good stuff did come out of it, right? And didn't you consider leaving Juice and taking the offer when it was made?"

Jesus, she wanted to get out of here. But she didn't know how she'd get home. She couldn't walk 70 miles; she wasn't that nuts. "Desi, stop! Stop! Why are you _doing_ this?"

Now Desi shifted seats, coming around the table to sit next to Frank and pull her into her arms. "Because I love you, sweetheart. You've been feeling so sad and lost for the past year, because you feel like everything was taken from you. I want you to see that you don't have to let that happen anymore. You have a lot of power. You are a tough little cookie. God, sweets, the things you've lived through. Losing your parents, what those boys did to you—those were the times when you really didn't have any power. But you got through. You were strong. So use that power now. Don't _let_ people jerk you around."

"You mean like right now?"

Desi tossed her head back and laughed. "Exactly! You're a peach, my little Frank. So, okay. What do you want? Right now. What do you want your life to be?"

She opened her mouth to be belligerent and say she wanted to end this stupid conversation and get the fuck back to Charming, but she stopped as the first word was working its way over her tongue. What _did_ she want? She had that answer in the chamber, ready to fire. She spent the bulk of every day thinking about it.

"I want to be able to paint. I want my car and my shit back. I want to take Smeagol and find an apartment. I want to work at the shop like a grownup. Shit, I'm one of the fucking owners. And I want to stop being scared all the time that they're going to lock me the fuck back up."

Desi leaned back to look her in the eye. "You didn't mention Juice."

Sighing, Frank closed her eyes and thought. What did she want? She loved him. She missed him. She wanted him. None of that had abated in the slightest. In fact, it was more intense for the loss of it. She wanted what they'd had for those few brief weeks after she'd gotten her crow and before he'd sent her away. That was perfect. She wanted that life. But it was behind her, and it was unattainable. Too much had happened since.

She used to think "always forward" when something didn't go the way she wanted. Move on, keep the past back where it can't do any more damage. She hadn't thought that in a long time. The past is always there to hurt you. You just can't see it coming.

"I can't have what I want with Juice, and I don't know if there's anything as good to have. I don't know. I love him. I hate not being with him. But I don't want to feel the way I felt this past year. I can't live with that kind of love." She laughed bitterly. "Obviously."

"So what are you going to do about him?"

"Fuck, Des. I really have no idea. I'm afraid if I try again, I'll just end up in the same place. Locked up or on a leash. But it's pretty clear that there's no one else for me."

"Power, sweets. Don't let yourself end up in the same place. Take the wheel."

A thought occurred to Frank and she started to laugh. It became a giggle. Then it was giggles. Desi grinned and asked, "What?"

"I was just thinking that my shrink should have served lunch with my therapy. Maybe then she'd have cracked me."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **All my stories occur and overlap in the same AU. Chapter 17 of my story Phoenix coincides in the timeline with this chapter. If you've read Phoenix, then you probably remember what that means. If you haven't read that story, then I'm **warning** you now that some very bad shit goes down in Chapter 17—intense sexual violence is part of it. Juice is involved in the aftermath, so here he's seeing the consequences but not the actual event itself. I'm trying to deal with it as obliquely as possible here, but I want to make sure you're warned.

Thanks again to **Simone Santos** for previewing!

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 14:**

"Red Hands," Walk Off the Earth

He stood in the lobby of Clear Passages and looked out the window at Level Up, across the street. Frank was in there. After last week's session at her therapist's, he didn't know whether he was still supposed to stay away from the shop when she was there.

Damn, that had been intense. It had been fantastic to see her and talk to her, but her pain was still palpable, as was his guilt. And then he'd asked her why she'd done what he told her to do, and she'd stormed out. He'd sat there stunned, castigating himself, sure he'd just ruined everything.

But Carla had simply stood, rolled her chair back behind her desk, and said, "Thank you, Juice. If you're willing, I might ask you to join us again at a later session."

"Um, yeah. Of course. Okay, then." He'd headed toward the door. As he put his hand on the doorknob, though, he stopped. "Wait. Doc, that was a disaster, right?"

Carla had looked up. "I won't discuss Frank's treatment or progress with you, Juice. That's confidential. But I appreciate your willingness to help. Have a good day."

So Juice had no idea if he'd been a help or not. When he'd seen her walking on the shoulder of the highway, he'd almost turned around, figuring it would only upset her more to see him again after that. But she was walking on the shoulder of the highway. He couldn't just leave her.

And that's how he'd ended up with her riding double behind him, her arms around his waist. That had been the longest and the shortest ride of his life. Longest because he was so turned on feeling her body on his that he couldn't focus on maneuvering the bike, and he was terrified he was going to lay it down. With her on it. Shortest because—well, Jesus. Because Frank was holding him and he never wanted it to end.

When he'd dropped her off, he'd screwed up his courage and asked the question: "Are you with me?"

She'd said she didn't know. That was a much better answer than he'd dared hope for. That wasn't a no. There was still a chance that he could make it right with her. He had to stop fucking everything up.

So, should he go over there now? He didn't know. But Garrett was over there, too, so if it was a mistake, he'd say so. Juice opened the door and crossed the street.

-oOo-

The bell tinkled over his head as he came into the store. She was standing behind the counter, ringing up a sale. She looked up at the sound of the bell, and their eyes met. She paused in the act of handing change back, then she shook her head a little and finished her transaction.

Well, she didn't run screaming into the back room. That was something. He looked around; Garrett wasn't on the sales floor. Juice assumed that meant he was in back. He walked forward down the center of the store, passing the departing customer on the way. Frank stood still and watched him come.

"Hey, baby."

She fidgeted, shifted back on forth on her feet. He still couldn't get over how good she looked. Seeing her like this really drove home how malnourished she'd been in San Francisco. He took her in. She had her hair in two ponytails. She was wearing a ripped, black Joy Division t-shirt over a green, long-sleeved knit shirt. Red plaid mini. Bare legs. Tall black Docs. She still had all her piercings, as far as he could tell, and she was made up with heavy black liner around her eyes. And her glasses. She was perfect.

She looked back at the door to the back room. Pretty clear that Garrett was back there. "What are you doing here? I thought Garrett had rules about this."

"He does. I'm breaking them. I'll go, though, if that's what you want. Is that what you want?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. Where you're concerned, I have no ideas. You confuse the shit out of me." She pushed her glasses up on her nose.

"You're wearing your glasses again." He smiled. They were almost having a conversation.

"Yeah. The—" she stopped, but then apparently reconsidered and went on. "—the meds they make me take make the contacts hurt. I didn't like them anyway. They were part of my big city makeover. I like wearing glasses."

"And I like you wearing glasses. I'm glad to see them back."

She huffed and put her hands on her hips. "I assume you didn't come in here to see how I was correcting my nearsightedness these days. Why are you here?"

He stepped all the way up to the counter and put his hands flat on it. "I wanted to see you. And it felt like we might have some things we need to talk about."

She shook her head. "I'm not ready to talk to you. I don't know what I want, or what I want to say, or what good talking would even do. So no. No talking. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

His disappointment was acute and heavy. "I'm sorry. I'll go. But Frank, one thing: I want you to know that I am ready to be whatever you want me to be to you. If you want me to disappear, I'll do everything I can to make sure you never see me. If you want to be friends, that would be great, and I will be whatever kind of friend you want. I want what we had, but I know I fucked that up beyond belief. I could never apologize for my epic stupidity, the way I hurt you. But if you want to try again, I will work forever to make it up to you and give you the love you want. Because I really love you."

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and looked toward the back room door to see Garrett standing there, looking displeased. He cleared his throat to push away the lump that was tightening his voice. "Okay. I'll see you. If that's what you want." He turned and headed for the exit.

"Hey, wait. You want to co-op some Borderlands 2 with me?" He turned, and he knew his grin was huge. It was so big he was worried he'd reopen his newly-unstitched jaw, but he couldn't stop.

"I'd really like that."

-oOo-

_Holy fucking shit_. _Jesus. JESUS._ _Oh, Jesus_. Juice realized he was actually praying. He couldn't believe the sight before his eyes. He couldn't process, he couldn't understand. How could anyone understand this?

He was standing just inside the doorway of a room straight out of a Silent Hill game. Happy was a bloody mess, chained to a metal chair. He was yelling—bellowing—hoarsely, at the top of his lungs. "Get her help! Now, Jax, NOW!"

Vivian, Hap's old lady—his very pregnant old lady—was in the room, too, and—_oh Jesus, oh Jesus_—she was naked, chained spread-eagle to the floor. She was—_God_. Just, _oh God_. There was blood everywhere, blood and other fluids. Viv was bleeding heavily between her legs and especially from a wound in her belly. A bullet wound. In her pregnant belly. There were other things in the room, tools of a sort, that he just ignored, unable to let his brain acknowledge what they meant.

"Juice! Shake it off and help—find the fucking key!" Jax was kneeling at Viv's side, yelling across the room at Juice. He shook it off and really looked around. The room was teeming with men, Sons and Galindos, trying to help Hap and Viv or dealing with the Lobos who'd done all this. One was down, a huge guy, clearly dead, most of his skull gone, his brains splattered on the wall above his body. The others were being harshly restrained by Tig, Phil, and a couple of Romeo's guys.

Juice went to the body and started rifling through the clothes. He was looking for a key. Why? What kind of key? He forced himself to focus. Hap and Viv were chained. He looked over at the wall where Viv was chained and saw a Master padlock. Okay.

He found what he was looking for and ran to Viv. _Jesus_, she was still conscious! After he freed her arms and legs, he threw the keys to Luis, who freed Hap. As soon as he was loose, Hap was on his knees, pulling his old lady into his arms. His left hand was a fucking disaster—swollen and horribly misshapen.

Before she finally, mercifully, lost consciousness, Viv asked about her baby. The mix of agony and fury on Hap's face was terrifying and heartrending.

Juice reeled and landed leaning against a concrete wall, trying not to void his stomach.

Then V-Lin ran in. The ambulance was here. At Romeo's suggestion that they didn't want civilians back in this room, Hap pulled his old lady into his arms and, pausing to make sure the remaining Lobos were kept alive for him, carried her out of this fucking dungeon and up into the daylight.

-oOo-

The day had started early, the prepay ringing before dawn. Jax had gotten a call from Romeo. The Lobos were going for Happy, whom they called the Killer of Sons.

Jax, Chibs, and Bobby had gone to Hap's house, but they'd been too late. The alarm had been disabled, and the house broken into. Hap and Viv were both gone. There was sign of struggle in their bedroom, but not as much as one would expect. Hap was a formidable fighter. He must have been completely disabled.

Jax had called all the Sons into church. Romeo's intel was incomplete. He knew the Lobos had a base in San Joa County, but he couldn't pinpoint the location; it was too new, and his contact wasn't quite deep enough yet for that. Now Juice was up.

It took him almost three hours of hardcore hacking, working at the top of his game, but he finally locked down a highly probably location, an industrial barn on a working farm. The final limiter had been that it was a redundant building oddly situated on the property. But man, the connection to the Lobos was buried really deep. Even as they began planning the rescue, Juice couldn't be 100% sure it was the right location.

It was the right location—that was clear as they arrived. Tig and Chibs went ahead of the rest and took out the guards. They had no idea what they'd find inside. Their best estimate was a minimum of five hours from the abduction to the rescue.

And, _Jesus_, what they'd found.

-oOo-

Juice was sitting on a sofa in the clubhouse. The mood here was black and silent. He really wanted a drink. No, he wanted a drunk. Fuck, he wanted to get drunk and erase the images of the day from his head. But he was still trying to undo the damage of the colossally stupid shit he'd done drunk. So he dealt with the images and the panic they provoked

Hap & Viv's baby, a little girl, was dead. Viv was—God, she was so badly hurt. Tig, Rat, and V-Lin were with several Galindos, guarding the Lobos until Hap could get there and deal with them himself.

Hap was easily the most badass motherfucker in the whole SOA organization. That _he_ couldn't keep his family safe? The fire was one thing—he hadn't been there to save them. But today they'd taken him and his old lady _out of their bed_. Jesus Christ.

He had an opportunity right now to free Frank from this danger, for good and ever. They weren't together. She wasn't sure she wanted to be. If he backed out now, she could be clear of this. Because if Hap couldn't protect his family, Juice knew he had no fucking chance. It had to be a clean, complete break, though. It should have been clean and complete last year. Maybe then she would have been able to stay strong and be happy. She could have gotten over him and moved on. But he loved her and didn't want to lose her. Selfish asshole.

Jax came up and sat down in a chair across from Juice. "You doin' okay, bro?"

"What? Yeah, I guess. Just—I can't stop thinking about it. Jesus."

"Yeah." Jax shook his head. "The Lobos have been gunning for Hap for awhile. We've asked him to do some serious shit. But fuck. This is bad." He was quiet for a few seconds, then he stood, walked over, and put his hand on Juice's shoulder. "But you did good, bro. You saved them. Even Romeo didn't know where they were. You did good." He gave Juice's shoulder a squeeze and then walked back to the office.

Juice watched him go. Had he saved them? Not fast enough to save their baby, or to save them the horror and pain. Fuck, he wanted a drink.

Now Chibs was walking over, a bottle of Jameson in his fist. He sat down on the couch next to Juice and put his arm around his shoulders. "How ya doin', lad?"

"People keep asking me that. I'm okay. Hap's the one that's not. Him and Viv."

"Yeah, that was bad. But you found 'em, Juicy. Don' know how you do what you do, but nobody else coulda done it. They'd be dead, no doubt. I'm proud o' ya."

Juice was unaccustomed to this kind of attention from his brothers. But Chibs had always been the one he could talk to most easily. He'd been kind of a mentor ever since Juice had gotten his patch. Juice turned to him now. "Chibs, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why do we even try to have families? If we're honorable, how can we bring women and children into this life?"

"Shite, lad. You don' fuck around with yer questions. You thinking about yer wee lass?"

"I don't know if she's mine anymore, but yeah. This life, bro. This life is fucked up. No place for a family."

Chibs chuckled softly. "Lad, you need a drink."

"No, I don't. I need to figure shit out. What about Fiona and Kerrianne, Chibs? What they went through with Jimmy and the IRA? They were _always_ in some kind of danger. Wouldn't it have been better not to be caught up in all that?"

Chibs was clearly pissed that Juice had brought his family into this, but he stayed calm. "Not that simple. We're not monks—fuck, we're about the farthest thing from it. We're men. We need that—a warm home. The ones think they don't are the scary fuckers. It's family keeps us honorable, lad. Without it, we're jes' animals."

"But how can we ask women to live like this?"

"Simple. We ask. We tell 'em what we can and let 'em make the choice. Then we move heaven keepin' 'em safe as we can. Best we can do, lad. Best any man can do." He patted Juice's shoulder. "Chin up, lad. You fixin' things with yer old lady?"

"Trying to. But maybe I shouldn't. She's finally getting better. I don't want to drive her over the edge again."

Chibs drained his bottle of Jameson and stood. "Brutha, all our old ladies are at least a wee bit over the edge. Not many women in their right minds want us." He went back to the bar.

-oOo-

The little bell chimed over his head as he entered the shop. He didn't see Frank—or anyone, for that matter—but he walked up to the front desk. She came around a comic book rack as he got there. As always when he saw her these days, his first feeling was a powerful impulse to touch her. He fought it. They were friends right now. Nothing more.

"Hey baby."

She gave him a look—he'd holstered the "baby"; it made her uncomfortable. But he was feeling raw and at loose ends, and he didn't even realize he'd said it until that look crossed her face.

She narrowed her eyes and stood akimbo. "What's up? You're vibey."

"I need to talk to you."

Taking a step back, she shook her head. "No. I'm not ready to talk about that with you, Juice. I told you—I'll let you know if and when."

"No, baby—" he closed his eyes and took a breath. "That's not it. Something happened, and I need to tell you about it. You need to know."

She was still looking at him with suspicion, but she nodded. "Okay. Let's go back." She led him to the back room, where a heavy-set girl with gorgeous dark auburn hair was unpacking boxes and stacking consoles on storage shelves. "Hey, Kimmie—you want to take the floor for awhile?"

"Sure, Frank." Kimmie went up front.

Juice watched as Frank closed the door and sat down on the couch. He sat next to her, close enough to touch. But he didn't.

"Garrett's not here?" He knew that one of the conditions of her release was short work hours, always with her brother.

"Nope. I'm full time now. What's the deal?"

He told her what had happened to Happy and Viv. He told her in some detail; he wanted her to really understand. He'd decided to put this in her hands, make it her call. Almost all of the strife between them came from him making decisions for her. He was done with that.

Frank didn't know Viv; she hadn't been to the clubhouse since before Viv moved to Charming. But she certainly knew Hap; he'd taken a weird kind of fatherly interest in her.

When he was done, she sat silently, stricken. When she spoke, she whispered only, "_Fuck_." And then she was quiet again for several heartbeats. Juice counted every one. He was scared of every possible thing she might say.

Eventually, she looked at him. He thought of her look as resigned. "So, this is the part where you tell me that you need to keep me safe, right? Well, I'm not fucking leaving town, so you can fuck off."

"I thought about doing that. I really did. I don't think I could make you see how scared I am for you. I don't want you hurt, ever. No matter what happens between us." Anger was overtaking her features, so he went on quickly. "But that's not what I'm going to do. I told you so much because I want you to know as much as you can before you decide."

Her hand was resting on her thigh. He took a risk and picked it up in his own. She didn't pull away. "This is your call, Frank. My life is dangerous, and I can't make sure you're safe. If you decide you never want any part of it again, I understand, and I will stay away. If you ever think you want to try again, I will try my best to protect you, but I will never let you go. Ever again. I know you're not ready to decide now, but I wanted you to know."

She laced her fingers with his.


	15. Chapter 15

****More thanks to **Simone Santos** for her fantastic, insightful feedback, and to the Freaks, who make every day a hoot.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. The rest is mine.

-oOo-

**CHAPTER 15:**  
"She's a Rebel," Green Day

Juice squeezed her hand and started to pull her to him. That was too much, and she pulled her hand away. "No, wait."

"It's okay. I'm sorry." She could tell he was. She could tell he was disappointed, too. She didn't know why she'd laced fingers with him. It was an impulse. He'd just told her some really fucking scary shit about Happy and his girl, and she was feeling more than a little freaked out.

But he'd also told her that it was her decision whether she was in his life or not, even though it was so fucking violent. That was big. If she could believe him, it was huge. It made her head spin a little. After her lunch with Desi, she'd pretty much decided that she wouldn't ever be able to trust him enough to be with him again. She'd just been trying to get her head around really ending things, and it hurt. Because she still loved the fuck out of him. But she couldn't handle being managed and lied to, even if it was to "protect" her, and she didn't think Juice could do anything else.

But here he was, telling her a hard truth and letting go of the wheel. It sure did make her head spin. If he really could stop trying to control everything . . .

"Don't be sorry. Just—fuck, you confuse me so much." She sighed and put her hand on his leg. He stared at it. "I'm really glad you told me. I'm so sorry about Happy. My God, I can't even think about what you said. But I'm glad you told me. It means a lot. I have some other stuff to work out before I can know what I want with us, Juice. I'm just not ready. If it's too hard to hang out, I understand."

"No. I like being with you like this. It's hard, but it's good." She wondered how long that would be true. She felt like she was stringing him along, and she knew how bad that sucked. But she needed to think all over again. Could they make something work? Would he let her be his partner and not his charge?

In a moment of self-truth, she also wondered whether she was ready for that. Because she knew she'd expected people—Juice, her brother—to catch her. If she wanted to take control of her life, she'd have to stop expecting people to be waiting around with a safety net.

Kimmie opened the door. "Sorry to bug you, Frank, but I have a customer with a question I don't know the answer to. Can you help?"

"Sure." She looked at Juice. "I gotta go. I'm off at six, if you want to game."

He smiled, but it wasn't nearly his max wattage. "I'll be here." They headed together to the front of the shop. Frank went to the desk; Juice went out the front door.

-oOo-

The next night, she and Garrett played a cutthroat game of Scrabble while Marnie had O over at her parents' house. They had house rules, which their parents had taught them, but no one else they'd ever met would play by the house rules. And they couldn't stand to play any other way. House rules were: interesting words got a bonus 10 points, regardless of their face or board value. Any word with fewer than four letters was subject to challenge—meaning that the challenger could see the player's tile deck, and if the challenger could make at least a four-letter word out of those tiles, he or she got those points.

Cutthroat Scrabble. Playing any other way was for pussies and illiterates.

Garrett was smoking Frank tonight, though. She was having trouble focusing on the game. She had thoughts of Juice spinning around in her head after their talk, and, on top of that, she needed to talk to Garrett about something. Finally, she just dove in.

"I'm going off the meds, Garry."

He stopped in the middle of restocking his tiles and stared at her. "What? You can't!"

"I can, and I'm going to. I don't like what they do to me. I don't like what they take away. And I don't need them." Using the "S" from Garrett's SNAKE, she laid the word SNOOD on the board, over a double word score. Plus the +10 for interesting. She updated her score on the scratchpad. It didn't help much.

"You think you don't need them because you feel okay. But you feel okay because of the meds."

"I don't think that's true. I feel _flat_ because of the meds. I feel _okay_ because I'm figuring stuff out. I didn't need meds before San Francisco. I was doing okay then."

Garrett didn't say anything, so she continued. "I mean, I know I was moody and hotheaded, but I got along okay. And I like having big emotions. I miss them."

"Sissy, you'll end up back at the Center. They take your blood every week—you won't be able to hide it." He was getting really upset. She thought about that. What scared him most?

"I'm not going to hide it. I'm telling Carla tomorrow. I'm also telling her she can shove her six months to drive and move out. I'm done with all this, Garry. I want to run my own damn life. I want people to stop trying to make me somebody else. I don't get why I'm not good enough the way I come."

"Frank, you tried to kill yourself! You almost fucking managed it! You can't be _trusted_ to run your life!"

And there it was. "Well, it's true that you've never trusted me to run my life, isn't it? _You_ run it. Or you sure try. Jesus, how many times have you gotten between me and Juice, trying to manage our shit? You brought us together, you tore us apart, now, I don't know, it seems like you're trying to bring us together again. Do you have any idea how many times I've wondered how things would be different if you'd kept your fucking mouth shut about Martin's offer and just fucking let me handle my life and my love my way? Fuck. Between the two of you I've been like a fucking yoyo."

"Sissy, come on. I'm trying to take care of you. I love you."

She laughed. "Well, that's great. That's exactly what Juice says. You're both treating me like a goddamn child. But Desi made me realize something—Juice, too, ironically. I've been letting you. I love you both so much. All this time, I've been expecting you to bail me out, or Juice to catch me, or whatever. And you were both there, so I trusted you instead of me. But then you weren't there anymore. You have a family of your own. Juice has—well, I'm still trying to figure that part out. But you weren't there, and I didn't think I could do it without you."

She'd rendered him speechless, that was clear. She picked up the Scrabble board and tipped the tiles into the box. This game was over. "But I _can_ do it without you. And I'm going to. So I'm done with all the restrictions. I know I have issues. I might still see Carla; I don't know. I'll talk to her tomorrow. If she tries to send me back—well, I'll deal with that if it happens." She leaned over the table, her hands flat on the lacquered wood. "But I'll tell you this, big brother, you do anything to help her send me back, and you and I are done. I'm serious. Stay out of this shit."

She cleaned up the rest of the game pieces while Garrett sat there staring at her. "I'm going to bed. I love you, Garry." She went back to her little girl room and got on her Mac, resuming her search for studio apartments in Charming.

-oOo-

She didn't sit when she got to her session with Carla. She came in, found Carla waiting for her in one of the leather chairs as usual, and closed the door. Then, standing right inside the door with her arms crossed, she announced. "I've stopped the pills. I'm looking for an apartment. And I told Garry to give me my fucking car keys back. I'm done."

Carla barely reacted. When Frank was done, she simply said, "That's a big announcement. You want to sit and talk about it?"

Frank sat. "I'll talk about it, but I'm not changing my mind. You want to shove me back in that box? Try."

"Do you mind if we take it one point at a time? You've stopped the pills. We've talked a lot about how strongly you feel things on your own. You don't have much of a control mechanism, and we decided that the cutting was a way to get control when your emotions get too big. Do you think you're ready to control them in a more healthy way?"

"I honestly don't know. I've never had a chance to try. So we'll see." She felt herself going on a roll, so she didn't wait for Carla to ask another question. She just dove in and kept talking. "Next point: I need to get out of my little girl room. I feel like a fucking child. I did fine—I did great—when I had my little apartment. That I know I can do. Third point: Even if I did want to kill myself—which I don't—I wouldn't do it with a car. And if I want to run away, I don't need a car to do it. And by the way, I'm 24 years old; the idea of 'running away' doesn't really apply. So not letting me drive is just stupid."

She leaned forward. "And a final point: I've made up my mind. I'm tired of other people making my life what they think it should be. If I fuck up, I want it to be my fuckup. You say I don't have control. Well, that's because no one wants me to have it, and I just figured out that it doesn't fucking matter what you people want. It's my life. If I go nuts again, it'll be on my terms."

She sat back in the chair; she was shaking. This was a huge risk. For all she knew, Carla had some kind of panic button under that chair she always sat in, and she'd already summoned the men in white scrubs to bring their needles and take her away. And fuck, she didn't want to go back there. But she had to break out of the restraints they still had her in.

"May I ask one question?"

"Go for it."

"If you go off your meds and you find you can't control your emotions, and you need to cut, or do more, how will you know before it's too late? If you're living on your own, how will you know?"

"I'm willing to keep coming here. No more than once a week, and not, like, forever. But for a while, until I know for sure I can handle everything. If it turns out I really can't, then I'll go back on the pills. But Carla, art is a huge part of how I know myself. I have to have that back. I have to. And I need to feel everything to get it back. That's how it works. And it helps me find control. I can paint it out."

And then, Carla shocked the hell out of Frank. She grinned. Not her usual composed, professional smile. A grin. What the hell. "Okay, Frank. We'll try it your way. Once a week—starting now. And congratulations."

Okay, that wasn't how Frank expected this session to go. She was suspicious. Where was the catch? "That's it? I can go?"

"Well, we still have 35 minutes, if you want to talk, but I think a lot got accomplished, so we can be done for the day."

Frank sat there with her mouth open. Carla sat forward. "Remember when I told you my job was to help you realize your strength? What you just showed me was real strength. Your strength. So let's see what you do with it."

-oOo-

Marnie was picking her up from that session. She'd left early, but she didn't bother calling Marnie and asking her to pick her up early. She sat in the autumn sun and thought out what had just happened. She'd just been freed. She was exhilarated. And she was terrified.

Marnie knew Frank's plan, so as soon as Frank got into her Accord, she asked "How'd it go?"

Frank turned and reached over the back of the seat to rub O's head. "Hey there, hooligan. Smooth, I think. She didn't fight me at all. It was weird. She acted like this was her plan all along."

"How would you feel if it was?"

"You know what? I don't care. I'm free. As soon as I see Garrett, I'm turning him upside down and shaking him until Elwood's keys fall out."

Marnie laughed. "They're in my bag. Inside pocket."

Frank dug them out and dangled them before her. "Holy shit, I'm so taking a drive. I have apartments to see!" She looked at her sister-in-law. "Garry still freaking?"

Marnie kept her eyes on the road, but she nodded. "A little. He does love you, you know. He's been trying to do right by you since you were 16. He's upset that he was getting it wrong."

"He wasn't, though. At least not until the past couple of years, maybe. I'll talk to him."

"Good. And Frank? You go, girl. I've been rooting for you."

-oOo-

Within a couple of days, she had signed a lease on a studio apartment, and she and Smeagol were moving in two weeks. She had her car. She was getting a chance to build a life. Maybe it was weird that she was building a life she'd already had once, but she'd liked that life.

Better than all that was that she was starting to feel like the meds were clearing her system. She'd been trying to think of a way to describe how it felt. Now, sitting in her little girl room, writing in her sketchpad—it turned out she really liked writing—she thought of the right way to say it. It was a lot like the feeling when your ears pop—that sudden brightening of sound and lightening of a pressure you'd gotten used to.

She hadn't started painting yet, but now she wasn't worried. Once she was out on her own, she'd paint. She was already starting to sketch in ways she found satisfying.

She felt good. She felt strong. She felt excited. Happy, even.

She still didn't know what to do about Juice, though.


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks to **Simone Santos**, who patiently reads everything I send her and gives fantastic feedback. She's also an amazing writer, so if you're not reading her stuff, you're missing out big time.

And thanks to everyone reading, following and reviewing. You brighten my inbox every day, and I'm so happy you're enjoying the story. :)

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 16:  
**"If You Don't, Don't," Jimmy Eat World

Being friends with Frank was the best and worst thing in Juice's life these days. He was seeing her regularly, and they were having a good time, playing games, watching movies. Talking—not about anything serious, but shooting the shit. Knowing he wouldn't pressure her seemed to have relaxed her, and he was seeing little glimmers of the girl he'd first fallen in love with, the one with the sharp sense of humor who wasn't angry and guarded all the time.

But it hurt a lot to be with her, and have her be easy with him again, but not be able to touch her the way he wanted. He had to work hard to remember the boundaries. It became a kind of litany _Don't call her baby. Don't touch her hair. Or her face. Or her hand. Just don't touch her._

He was doing everything he could not to pressure her, to let her learn that she could trust him again. Because he would accept any decision she made about them. He meant it, he said it, and he would stick to it. But he would do anything he could to keep her.

She seemed to be doing great. She was getting her life back, and she was sweetly excited. It made him excited for her. She'd gone off the meds she hated. He was glad—scared for her, but glad. She had seemed like another person on them. Even when she was shouting and swearing at him, which was certainly familiar, there was something in her eyes that was off.

Now she was his Frank again. But she wasn't his. It was hard.

-oOo-

Juice and Garrett lugged Frank's futon up a narrow set of stairs. Getting it around the corner and through the door took some doing, but they managed it. Inside, Frank and Marnie were separating boxes according to contents, while Oliver bounced in his walker, banging the toys attached to it and babbling happily.

"Set it right there, by the window. Thanks!" The futon was the last piece; Frank was moved into her new apartment. Another little studio, this one in town, over a florist's shop. Frank picked it for the light, of course. It was on a corner. Two windows met in that corner, and, though the view was nothing to speak of, the light was great. Even Juice could see that the light was perfect for Frank. The first thing she'd brought in—she'd had it in Elwood already when she picked up the keys—was her easel.

But it was tiny. Much smaller than the place she'd had over the Bendersons' garage. This one barely even bothered to pretend it had a kitchen. In one corner, there was a tiny range, a small fridge, and an old-fashioned porcelain kitchen sink setup. Frank had added a couple of small tables from Goodwill so she had someplace for her microwave and coffeemaker. She'd hung shelves over the sink to serve as storage for her few pieces of dishware and the one pot she owned. Cooking was really not her thing.

Frank was squatting next to Oliver, playing with him. Juice looked over and said, "I don't know why you didn't get a bigger place. My living room is twice the size of this whole apartment."

She stood up and shrugged. "I like a small place. It's cozy. And I can see everything. This has everything I need—good light, good closet, decent bathroom. Don't complain, asshole. You don't live here."

As was usually the case these days, he was pulled in two directions by her response. He felt simultaneously hurt and pleased. Hurt, because he didn't like reminders that they weren't together, and she still hadn't decided if they would ever be. But pleased, because that was an old Frank kind of thing to say.

And he'd always think it was fucking adorable that she was afraid of the dark. Not that she'd ever admit that she was.

She and Marnie started unpacking her clothes. Juice and Garrett took the opportunity to plop on the futon for a second. But Frank was having none of that. "If you're bored, boys, you could get started on that." She pointed to the long wall in front of them, where sat several boxes containing a shelving unit from IKEA. Or, rather, the many, many separate parts of what might become a shelving unit. Both men groaned.

Marnie laughed. "Come now, gents. I thought you were supposed to be manly men. You slay the furniture, we women will order up the take-out."

-oOo-

Several hours later, the boxes were unpacked, the shelves were up, Frank's electronics, books, games, and LPs were neatly arranged on them, and take-out dinner of fried chicken and beer had been consumed. Oliver was sleeping in his car seat; Smeagol, who had gotten very used to being moved all over creation, and who had, strangely, developed a deep affection for the baby, was curled up underneath it, also sleeping.

Garrett stood up and stretched. "Okay, guys. We need to head out. Sissy, you call if you need anything. Right?"

Frank rolled her eyes dramatically. "I will call. And you will chill. _Right?_"

"And on that note, we'll see you tomorrow. Say goodbye, Garrett. Let's go." Marnie picked up the car seat, careful not to disturb her sleeping son.

As they were heading out, Frank pulled on Garrett's arm. When he turned, she hugged him. "I love you, Garry. I'm good. I promise." Juice felt like he was eavesdropping on a very private moment, so he walked off toward her "kitchen" and fiddled with her coffeemaker.

And then, suddenly, he was alone with Frank. Really alone, for the first time in months. In her apartment. With her goddamn bed dominating the room. He gripped the porcelain edge of the sink with both hands as a wave of totally inappropriate lust crashed through him. They were just friends. They were still just friends. He had to be okay with that.

"Juice? You okay?"

He took a breath and turned around, hoping she wouldn't notice the very evident sign of what he'd just been thinking about. "Yeah, I'm good. I should head out, too, though. Let you enjoy some peace and quiet."

She smiled at him, an easy, open smile. She looked so fucking good, and he just wanted to kiss her. Damn, he wanted to feel her in his arms and kiss her. He had to get out of here.

"Yeah, some alone time would be good, actually. It's been a long time. Hey—thanks for today. It was great you were here."

They were making tiny steps toward something. He could almost feel it. That small progress was making him impatient for more. But he was _not_ going to pressure her. He was going to fucking wait for her to decide what she wanted, no matter how long that took. He owed her that. After everything, he owed her _at least_ that.

"I'm glad I could help. It was good to hang out with Garrett and Marnie, too. And Oliver's pretty cute."

She grinned. "Yeah, O's the shit. I'm looking forward to corrupting him egregiously."

"Okay, I'm out. I'll see you soon." He headed for the door, but she stepped in front of him.

"Juice, wait." He stopped. She was close enough that if he reached out his hand he could pull her to him. It wasn't the first time she'd been so close since they'd been spending time together again, but right now, alone in her apartment, he felt it acutely.

And then she stepped to him, put her arms around his waist, and laid her cheek on his chest. _Fuck_. At first he stood rigid, pulling his hips slightly back from her.

Just as he succumbed and put his arms around her, she spoke. "I really mean it, Juice. Thank you. I'm happy we're friends. I know I'm asking a lot. I'm trying to figure everything out, I promise."

He leaned down and pressed his face into the crook of her neck. He knew it was the wrong thing; she'd just thanked him for giving her time to figure things out. But he couldn't stop himself. "God, baby."

She pushed away. "Anyway, thanks for everything. I'll see you."

So he left—confused and frustrated, and not sure he could do the friend thing after all.

-oOo-

When Juice walked into the clubhouse a week or so later, he was shocked to see Happy sitting at the bar, alone, with a bottle of Jack. It had been almost a month since the Lobos had taken and tortured him and Viv. Juice had been at the hospital a lot while she was there—all the Sons had, keeping a kind of vigil in support—but no one had seen much of Hap.

His left hand was still in a big cast. The Lobos had broken just about every bone in it before the rescue. They'd worked on Viv until the were certain she was dying—and she would have if the Sons and Galindos had been much later—and then they started on Hap. Most of Hap's torture, then, was mental. They'd made him watch what they did to Viv. Juice couldn't think much about any of it; it made him dizzy and sick.

The shit that had happened to SAMCRO women in the past couple of years was outrageous. Rapes. Beatings. Torture. Abduction. Fuck, Tig's daughter had been burned to death. While she was conscious. Before her father's eyes.

And yet, he was going to let Frank into this life, if she wanted it. She knew about all of that. He had to let her make this choice on her own.

Juice went up and stood at the bar. "Hey, Hap. How you doin'? How's Viv?"

Hap took a long drag on his cigarette and blew it out. "Shitty."

Juice sat down. "I'm so sorry, man. I don't know what to even say."

"Nothin' to say." He took a swallow from the bottle. Without turning toward Juice, he said, "Thank you, brother. You found us. Didn't expect that to happen."

"I wish I could have done better, found you sooner, before—." Juice couldn't say it. He could barely even imagine it.

"Yeah." Hap stubbed out his smoke and pushed the ashtray away.

Then he turned and studied Juice for an uncomfortably long time. "How's your old lady?"

Juice had never quite been able to understand Happy's interest in Frank. It wasn't Hap's style to give a rat's ass about another Son's old lady. But ever since he'd helped Juice deal with Frank's rapists, he'd been invested in, almost fascinated by, Frank. Juice wasn't threatened—it clearly wasn't a sexual kind of interest. It was more . . . fatherly. But that was even weirder, honestly.

"She's doing okay. Pretty good. But I'm not sure she's my old lady anymore."

Hap had turned back to stare at the wall behind the bar as Juice spoke. Now he turned back sharply. "She has your crow."

"Yeah, but it's complicated. A lot's happened."

Hap laughed at that. It was a sad, harsh, ugly sound, without humor. "Ain't complicated, boy. She has your crow. That's long haul shit." He looked Juice up and down. "You marked?"

He rubbed the spot over his heart. The leather on his kutte was shiny there from the friction of his hand, going to that spot over and over. "Yeah."

"Fuck. What're you doin'?"

"Letting her decide what she wants. She's had a rough go. She needs to figure out what she wants." He could not believe he was talking to Happy about this. He felt defensive.

Again Hap laughed that awful laugh. "Rough go. Yeah." He drank down the rest of the bottle in long swallows. Juice watched, feeling sad and powerless. "You're both marked. That's long haul. You don't fucking give up. Christ, asshole. You don't quit." With that he got up, went behind the bar for another bottle, and walked across the room to a chair in the far corner.

Juice sat at the bar and tried to figure out what just happened.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy

* * *

**CHAPTER 17:**

"A Life's Story," Union 13

Frank knew she was going to have to make a decision; she and Juice had been hanging out for weeks now. She loved it, just being with him. It felt like it used to, when they'd first met. She'd forgotten, in all the drama and guilt and pain, what it had been like just to love him. If they could have that again, she was back in.

But what they'd had had been twisted and turned inside out, and she'd ended up literally in the loony bin. She was just getting herself back. She couldn't start over with Juice unless she was sure they wouldn't just roll down the same fucking road again. She had to be sure she was strong enough, and she had to be sure he would let her be, but she didn't know how to be sure. She felt paralyzed.

Everything else was good. She felt good. She was happy to be working at the shop again, hanging with people she understood—and who understood her. She loved this little apartment—it wasn't as great as the Benderson's apartment, but she liked being in the middle of town. And it was hers. Smeagol liked it—it had deep windowsills, and he spent a lot of time in the windows, watching. He loved the rows of birds perched on the wires crisscrossing the street.

She was living on the cheap because she liked it that way. She guessed she didn't need to; Martin had sold all but two of the pieces she'd had at the gallery, and she had a lot of money in the bank from her art sales. That and the money she still had from her parents, plus her share of the growing profits from the shop—she was set up pretty well. But it was too big a number for her to get her head around, and she didn't know what she'd do with it, anyway. She and Garry each took a salary; she lived on that, and saved about half of that as well. But she knew she had some financial freedom, if she wanted it.

Martin had been great about not pressuring her. In fact, he'd said it was good for her work to come off the market for a while. He wanted her to come and spend a weekend in the city, making the schmooze rounds, but he wasn't pushing. And she wasn't ready to face that boogeyman. The last time she'd been in San Francisco, she'd left in an ambulance, being transported to the Center. In restraints.

So she'd hold off on that reunion.

She stepped back from her easel and took a look. She'd woken up this morning with the impulse to paint, and a burst of adrenaline had surged through her blood as soon as she realized—remembered—what it was she was feeling. Now, she was still standing in her t-shirt and underwear. She'd essentially leapt out of bed and opened her paints.

She looked at the clock on the wall, a big, funky, 50s thing she'd found at Goodwill. She'd been painting nonstop for more than three hours.

The canvas on her easel was full of vivid color in swirls and streaks and splashes. It had an aura of yellow around and through it. She didn't usually paint with so much yellow, but it worked here. She thought it was pretty good. She also thought it was finished. She picked up a 10/0 brush, dipped it in black paint, and signed it.

She'd call it "Release."

She sat down on the floor, brush and palette still in her hands, and cried huge sobs of relief. She didn't even try to stop them. They felt good.

-oOo-

She was filling in the new release comics when the bell over the front door chimed. She stood up and walked toward the desk, flipping through the books she still had in her arms. She looked up as she went behind the counter, prepared to do her retail greeting, and froze.

"Happy?" She hadn't seen him since she'd gotten her chest tat. That was—shit, almost a year ago now. She couldn't think of anyone who would look more out of place here in geek central than Happy. He'd been here before, when he'd helped rebuild the shop. But it had been a construction zone then.

"Hey, little girl."

"Hi." She felt like she should say something about what had happened to him, but everything in her head sounded really stupid. She never did understand the empty platitudes people felt they had to spout when bad things happened. So she simply said, "Can I do something for you?"

"How you doin'? Heard you had a rough time."

He was here to check up on her? Why? She hadn't seen a Son who wasn't Juice since—well, since she'd seen Happy in San Francisco. She had no idea what the club knew about her and Juice, or about what she'd been going through. And didn't he have more important things to do than check on her? "Um, I'm good. You've had a rougher time, I think."

His eyes narrowed a little, just for a second, like a twitch. "Yeah. I want to talk. Will you?"

Inside, she was busily trying to make sense of this. The last time he wanted to talk, it was to lecture her about what it meant to have Juice's crow, because she'd been topless in front of Toad while he did her new ink. Well, not lecture, exactly; he'd said, like, twenty words. But the message was there. What had she done wrong now?

Outside, she sighed and said, "Yeah, I guess. What's up?"

"Private."

"There's no one else here, Happy. That's as private as we got."

He stared at her for a couple of seconds, then he turned and walked to the front door. He locked it and came back. Great. Now she was locked in with the Sons assassin. Her heart picked up its pace. Wait—was she _really_ in some kind of trouble with the club? How?

"Happy—what's going on? Did I do something?"

He didn't say anything, just walked behind the counter and reached out to her. She flinched back—seriously, what the hell? Whether he was going to hug her or strangle her, this was freaking her out. He stopped and gave her a look, then put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently back until she ended up sitting on a stool by default.

He said, "Sit." Then he sat on the other stool. "You know what went down with me and mine?"

She nodded. "It's awful."

"Yeah." He was quiet, looking down. Frank really saw the snake tattooed on his scalp for the first time—he was so much taller than she, there's no way she'd have gotten such a look at it under most other circumstances. It was beautiful. Richly detailed, covering the whole top of his head. She also noticed that the faint covering of fuzz on his scalp was entirely grey. How old was he?

Still looking at the floor between them, he said, "My little girl died. My old lady almost did."

This was turning out to be the saddest, most awkward conversation she'd had in memory—which was saying something. She'd had a lot of sad and awkward conversations since she'd gotten back from France. "I know. I don't have any words. I'm supposed to, but I don't. Sorry."

"Nah—I don't want 'em." He looked up at her. "I asked you once if you knew what that crow meant. You blew me off. I'm asking again."

"But why, Happy? Why do you give a shit? That's what I asked you before, and you didn't know. So why should I talk to you about this?"

"I give a shit. Don't know why. But I do. More, now. So I'm askin'."

"Why should I tell you?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. It was a subtle gesture, and it said, _because people do what I tell them to do_. It wasn't a threat—she'd figured out he wasn't here to hurt her, and, in fact, she was figuring out that she was really fucking safe with him. So it was almost funny in this context. He was acting like a father. Her heart had returned to its normal rhythm, and she was feeling really sorry for him and everything that had happened to him. So, on a whim, she decided to indulge him.

"I know what it means. It means I'm his old lady. I'm just not sure I know what _that_ means anymore."

He glared at her. His glare was . . . memorable. "It means you don't quit. You work shit out."

"It's not that simple, Happy."

"It's exactly that simple, little girl. You work it out. You don't run. You don't fucking kill yourself. That's pussy bullshit."

Okay, indulgence over. "Yeah, this conversation is over now. Thanks for stopping by." She stood up.

So did he. "Sit."

She didn't sit, but she didn't move away. She crossed her arms. "I'm not taking relationship advice from a guy who hurts people for a living."

Happy's jaw twitched in a way that made her think she was too hasty in deciding he wasn't a threat to her, but all he said was, "Sit." She sat. And then he did as well.

"You act like Sons never break up. They do. Bobby's got multiple exes. They got crows, too, right? _Why do you fucking care_? And if you care, why don't you care that we might be better apart?"

"You're not. I know how he feels. I've seen what he'll do for you. That ink don't fade, little girl."

Okay, now she thought he was speaking in metaphor, and she was lost. "What does that even mean?"

"It means I know." He stood and loomed over her. "Fucking talk. Just fucking talk. Christ. Fucking _talk_. Work out your shit. You made a fucking promise. Act like it."

"Why are you hounding _me_, Happy? Why is it on me to fix it?"

"It's not. You're both assholes." With that, and without another word, he turned and walked out.

Frank sat, stunned, and stared at the door he'd left through.

-oOo-

She thought about her little "talk" with Happy the rest of the day. It confused the hell out of her. Everything that had anything to do with Juice confused the hell out of her, but she was just baffled by Happy's interest in her. She didn't even know how she'd managed to land on his radar. He'd been a big help rebuilding the shop after it had been shot up, but that was really all of the contact she'd had with him, aside from occasionally being in the clubhouse at the same time he was. So why such interest? She didn't get it.

She knew enough about him to know it was bizarre to the point of hilarity that he would think he could school her on how to conduct her relationship with Juice. But he had an old lady of his own now, and they'd been through something horrible. She guessed it made a kind of sense that he'd be thinking about shit like this, maybe. But why wasn't he thinking about his own shit, then? Unless he was.

It was all just too crazy to fit in her head. Not for the first time, she thought that it was impossible not to be crazy when this was her life, and these were the people in it.

Brian came in to relieve her at 4pm. She went back and tallied the deposit, then packed up and headed to the bank before it closed. Usually she'd just drop the deposit in the night slot, but they needed to restock coins, so she was going in early.

She made the deposit, got her coins, and headed out. The line of people waiting for a teller was long, and Frank, who could rarely pass up a people-watching opportunity, scanned the queue for interesting characters.

And she found one. A curvy, stacked woman in a tight leopard print mini and high black books. Long, lustrous dark hair. Fair copper skin. Perfect manicure. She knew her instantly. She'd once had a few pictures of her.

Frank stopped. She knew she was gaping at the woman, but she didn't care. She hadn't noticed Frank's bald stare; she was looking at her phone. Frank wondered if she still had those pictures on her phone. Frank had deleted hers long ago.

She walked up to the line and stood alongside the woman. Finally, she looked up from her phone and made eye contact with Frank. First, she was clearly irritated, confused—why was this person staring at her? Then Frank saw recognition. There was a flash of panic in her eyes. But then, quickly, that intelligent response was replaced by something else. A kind of aggression. She smiled. "Well, hello. You really are a little thing, aren't you. I almost forgot."

Frank just stared. The woman laughed then. "You doing okay, honey? I heard you cracked up. They let you out, though, looks like. Well, good for you."

Her blood was churning. She could feel the buzzing in the back of her head. She pushed it back, but it wanted to come. This woman—what this woman had _done_. And she was _smiling_ at her. She looked _smug_.

Then Frank felt the weight on her shoulder. She had $100 worth of coins in her bag. She let that thought simmer for a second. Then she smiled back at the woman. She nodded. And she left the bank.

When the woman came out several minutes later, she got a bag full of rolled coins smack in the face. And, as she lay on the ground, she got a couple more.

-oOo-

Frank sat on the curb. In handcuffs. Maybe assaulting someone on the sidewalk in the middle of Charming wasn't her brightest move ever. EMTs were tending to the woman, who did look kinda not great.

She wondered what the future held for her. Back to the Center? Shit, jail? But she felt okay. She was calm. The buzzing had stopped as soon as she felt the weight of the coins on her shoulder.

So she sat on the curb, cuffed, being ignored right now by everybody, as the cops talked to the woman. And she waited.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Juice is more violent in this chapter than we're used to seeing him. He has good reason, I think.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. Otherwise, it's mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER 18:  
**"Always," Blink 182

Juice's cell went off: Gemma. Why would Gemma be calling him? "Yeah, Gem. What's up?"

"Where are you right now?"

He'd been troubleshooting a tech problem for the Fresno charter. "Clubhouse. Why?"

"Shit. Okay. Meet us at the station, then."

The station? Police station? Us? "Gemma, what are you talking about?"

"They're taking Frank in. Your chickens are home to roost, baby. She just beat the _shit_ out of Neela."

Holy fucking shit. "I'm there." He ended the call and ran out to his bike.

-oOo-

When Wayne Unser had been Chief of the Charming PD, the Sons didn't get much grief at all from local law. They had more than enough trouble with the Feds—Juice could fucking vouch for that—but Unser was a friend of the club, and he and Clay had a mutually beneficial agreement.

But Unser had been forced to retire, and things had been tougher since. Charming PD had been disbanded, and enforcement had been taken over by the San Joaquin Sheriff's office. It had taken a long time, but Jax was finally working things out with Eli Roosevelt, the lieutenant in charge of Charming. Still, the situation wasn't nearly as friendly as it had been in Unser's days.

So Juice was worried. He hadn't called Garrett yet—he thought Frank might pop a vein if he called in the cavalry before he'd talked to her. But he was worried. He had no idea what he was walking into, or whether there was anything he could do to help her.

Gemma was waiting in the lobby; she stood and kissed his cheek when he came up to her.

"What the fuck happened, Gem?"

"I wasn't there when it happened—I came out of the pharmacy and saw the result. It was outside the bank. What I can tell, Neela said something to her inside, and Frank waited until she came out and then beat the shit out of her with that ugly bag she carries."

"I don't understand. Neela's got at least 6 inches and 30 pounds on her. How could she have done damage with her _bag_?" He knew well how hard Frank hit. Not very. Even with that canvas messenger bag, she couldn't have been more than a nuisance.

"It was full of rolled coins, darlin'. Neela doesn't look good. They took her to St. Thomas. There might be trouble here. Sounds like Neela is pressing charges. But Candy was there, so maybe there's something."

Candy Eglee was an officer from Charming PD days who was sympathetic to the club, and who'd made the transition to the Sheriff's office. If Candy was the arresting officer, they maybe had some leeway, at least to talk to Frank soon and get her out on bail fast.

"Neela's going to drop the charges, Gemma. I fucking guarantee it." Once he had Frank released, his next stop was the hospital.

"Be careful, darlin'. It was on the street. There were witnesses."

_Fuck_. "I'll figure it out. I'll handle it."

Candy came out from around the bulletproof glass separating the lobby from the actual office. She was pretty, blonde, and trim, and, though she didn't hang out at the club, she flirted with the Sons whenever they had cause to be in the station—not an infrequent occurrence. "Hey, Juice."

"Candy—she okay?"

"All things considered, yeah. I can bring you back, if you want."

"Thanks."

Candy nodded and led Juice back. Gemma waited in the lobby.

Frank was in a cell, sitting on the cot, leaning against the wall. She was alone in holding; that was something, at least. Juice walked up and put his hands around the bars. "Hey, baby."

She didn't get up. Her smile was . . . ironic. "I think I maybe screwed up. I'm in a lot of fucking trouble, huh?"

"Maybe. You want to tell me what happened?"

She shrugged. "Not much of a story. The woman you fucked was in the bank. She said some shit. She pissed me off. I hit her."

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at Neela's audacity. Sending those photos was way over the line. Talking smack to his old lady wasn't much of a stretch, then. "I'm so sorry, baby. This is my fault, too."

"Yeah, I think your drunk dick is the least of my problems right now. What's going to happen?"

"She wants to press charges." Juice didn't know if that was arrogance, stupidity, or just plain insanity, but according to Candy, Neela had pointedly demanded that Frank be charged.

She leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands. "Fuck. Of course she does. It's like she's actively out to ruin my life, and I don't even know her fucking name."

"It's Neela."

Frank glared at him. "That was rhetorical, asshole. I don't care what her name is, and _you_ telling me? Not helping."

He chuckled. He liked to see her sass. "Sorry. Frank, I can fix this. If you want me to."

She spoke low, under her breath. "You mean fix _her_, right? Like you fixed Jordan?"

He couldn't kill Neela, not if there were other witnesses. He sure the fuck wanted to, but it would only complicate Frank's situation. "I can get her to drop the charges. I can talk to her. But if you don't want me to, I won't. Your call."

"Just talk to her?"

He shrugged. "Mainly talk."

Frank was quiet, staring at the blank wall in front of her. "Yeah, okay." Then she got up off the cot and came up to him. She put her hands on the bars, just under his, and looked up into his face. "Happy came to see me today."

He wasn't as surprised as he might normally have been. For whatever reason, Happy was invested. A couple of weeks ago, he'd talked to Juice, too. Still, it pissed him off, because this really was no damn business of Hap's. "He did? Why?"

"Basically, to call me a pussy and a quitter. Oh, and an asshole—but he called you that one, too. It was good times."

"Sorry, baby. He's . . . off the rails right now." In addition to what the Lobos had done, something big had gone down with Viv, and she'd moved back to Berkeley. Hap had been absolutely psycho for a week or so right after she'd left, storming through the jobs, the clubhouse, the booze, and the women like a fucking freight train. The women had actually started to make themselves scarce when he was around—and he was staying at the clubhouse, so he was around a lot. The other guys were getting pissed, but no one, not even Tig, wanted to take Hap on in that state. Finally, Jax had shut him down, somehow, and he'd been calmer lately—unless they were on a cartel job. "Off the rails" was a good way to describe him.

"It's okay." She moved her index fingers and linked them over his pinkies on the bars. The move surprised him—anytime she touched him surprised him these days—and he twitched a little. He tightened his grip around her fingers.

The stress meter on this situation had to be sky high. She looked okay, but he was worried. "How are you feeling, Frank? You okay?"

"You know what? I am. It's weird. I should be freaking out. Jesus, I'm in _jail_. A freakout would be _normal_. And I'm worried, definitely. But I feel okay. It felt really fucking good to lay that bitch out." She smiled a little at him, and he found himself fixated on her pierced lower lip. "I think we need to talk—if I get out of here."

"That I'm taking care of before I leave. Sit tight, baby. We're gonna fix this." He leaned down and kissed the fingers of her left hand, and he turned to leave the holding area.

"Hey, wait," she called, and he turned back to her. "Did you tell Garrett?"

"No. I figured that was up to you."

She grinned and nodded. He went to get her bail situation figured out.

-oOo-

It took some time, but he got Frank bailed out, and Gemma took her back to her apartment. Once they were gone, he got on his bike and headed to St. Thomas, where he found out that Neela had already been discharged. Not too banged up, then. Yet.

He stopped at home and hacked the DMV for her address. And then he went to handle Neela.

She lived in a little bungalow near the railroad tracks. Literally on the wrong side—the other side of the tracks was a decent, working-class residential neighborhood, but on her side, the houses petered off quickly, there were no sidewalks, and the area became industrial. The house was covered in peeling siding—siding was pretty unusual in California; throughout the state, the prevailing architectural choice was stucco. For a reason—especially in the Central Valley, the weather wasn't good for siding, and Neela's rented house showed it. He cut the engine on his Dyna and parked a few doors up from hers.

There weren't even streetlights on this side of the tracks. It was deep dark, though it wasn't very late. The area was quiet. He walked up her rotting wooden front steps. She had a single strand of multi-colored lights strung across the porch. Juice kept forgetting it was almost Christmas. He noticed that there were no sidelight windows or peephole at her door; she wouldn't see who was standing out here. He rang her bell.

Neela opened the door slowly and peeked through the crack. It was all Juice needed; he'd been ready. He kicked the door in, knocking her back into the hallway. She screamed. He slammed the door shut and grabbed her arm as she tried to run through a wide doorway to the right.

He pulled her around and slammed her against the wall. She was wearing only her underwear and a red velour robe. One gloved hand around her throat, the other pushing hard on her shoulder, holding her to the wall, Juice got right in her face and glared at her.

She really was a mess—Frank had broken her nose and, considering the deep bruising and swelling around Neela's left eye, that socket was broken, too. Her lips were swollen and cracked. The whole left side of Neela's face was a misshapen, swollen mess. Jesus, Frank's aim was true, that was clear. Whatever Juice did to her, he had to be careful. She was in such bad shape already, he could kill her by accident.

"Wait, Juice. Please." The words were mushy around her swollen mouth.

"You fucking cunt. What do you think you're doing?"

She was crying. "Please don't hurt me. You're a nice guy. Please."

He _was_ a nice guy—he liked to think so, anyway, despite the things he'd done. He'd never done something like this before—he'd never gone after a woman. But he hated this one with a fierce passion. He didn't hate her because she'd fucked him—that was his mistake—but for what she'd fucking done to Frank. Those pictures! Jesus. As he thought about them, his hand tightened around her throat.

"Please, Juice. Please." The words were dim and strained as she tried to breathe around her constricted airway. He loosened his grip just enough to let her.

"You just won't stop, will you, bitch? The hateful way you hurt her. I should gut your skanky ass right here. But you have work to do. You are going to drop the fucking charges. You're going to tell the cops that you started that fucking mess and you are going to drop the charges. You're going to do it tonight. You're going to call while I'm here, and then you're going straight to the station to change your fucking statement. Do. You. Understand. Me?" He pulled her forward by the throat and slammed her back to the wall to punctuate every word.

Dazed, she nodded as much as she could around his hand.

"Good. Then you're going to pack up your shit and get your filthy gash the fuck out of Charming. Tonight. I will be back here tomorrow. If Frank is still charged, if you're still here, I _will_ kill you, and I'll make it slow. I've been hanging out with Hap. I have some ideas about what I could do to you. Are we clear?"

She nodded again, weeping openly now despite her ruined face and squeezed throat, and he let her go. "Call."

She went for her cell phone. He snatched it away from her. "Not with this. Use your landline."

As she called, he went through her cell. The pictures were still there. Vile fucking bitch. He deleted all of her photos and texts. He deleted her contacts. He reset the phone completely. He'd planned to give it back to her clean, but he thought twice. Instead, he put it in his pocket.

After she'd told the cops that she wanted to drop all charges and change her statement, she hung up and sat heavily on her pink striped sofa. "I don't have any money. I don't have anywhere to go."

He pulled out his fold of bills, peeled off $300, and threw the bills at her. "For serviced rendered, whore. The rest you can figure out your fucking self. You take me seriously—I will be back here tomorrow, and you better be gone. Frank better be clear of your shit. Because I will make it very hard on you otherwise."

"I just wanted a nice guy. I thought you were a nice guy." Her voice was hoarse and small.

"You were wrong, bitch. Get your ass dressed and to the station. Now." He stalked out and slammed the door.

-oOo-

He'd followed her to the station and waited for her to conduct her business there and leave. He went in after her; Candy was still on duty, and she told him that Neela had indeed dropped the charges. Frank was in the clear.

He destroyed Neela's phone and got rid of it. Then he headed to Frank's apartment to let her know she was clear. On the ride, he thought about what had just happened with Neela. He searched his head for feelings of guilt for having terrorized a woman. He felt like there should be some guilt, whether she'd deserved it or not. He found none. He didn't feel remotely guilty. In fact, he felt unsatisfied. He'd barely hurt her. He'd wanted to kill her.

But Frank had put plenty of hurt on her. He was proud. She'd really stood up for herself. His pint-sized punk. He smiled and decided it was okay that he didn't feel guilty for attacking a woman. He'd protected his old lady.

Damn, he hoped she was still his old lady.

He parked his bike on the street. The windows of her apartment were, as usual, ablaze with light. He went into the building and took the stairs two at a time.

She opened the door as he made the landing; she must have heard him pull up. "Hey. Everything okay?" she asked, and made way for him to come in.

"Hey, baby. Everything's taken care of. You're clear." He followed her to the futon, and they sat.

She visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank God. Thank you. Did you—?"

She didn't finish, but he knew what she was asking. "I only scared her. I barely touched her at all. I didn't need to—baby, you did a number on her. It was awesome."

"Yeah, well, she pissed me off." She grinned sheepishly—cute as fuck.

"Well, it's all good now. I sent her out of town; you won't have to deal with that shit again. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Thanks for helping me out of this mess." Shifting on the futon, she folded her legs in front of her.

"I got you into it."

She chuckled and gave him a lopsided little grin. "Yeah, maybe. A little."

His hand almost reached out to touch her face, but he caught it before the movement became more than a twitch. "Frank, you in the mood to talk now?"

After a moment, she nodded. "I think so. If you can be quiet and just listen, let me get through it. There's a lot. I've kind of been practicing. A little."

She was just so damn cute. Grinning, he said, "You just tell me when you're done."

"Okay." She took a few beats, then a deep breath. "I love you. I miss you. I really do." He smiled, but said nothing; she went on. "I think about what we had right before I went to San Francisco. That was my perfect life. I wish I could have that back. I've been trying to figure out if we could have that again, but I know we can't. There's too much between then and now. And I've been so fucking angry at you for taking that away. It's taken me a long time to think about it in any other way than you ruining everything."

Now his smile faded. Fuck.

"But I know you were trying to do the right thing. You and Garrett. Beavis and Butthead. You two get together, and my life flips over. And I've been so pissed. At myself more than anything, I think, because I couldn't figure out how you kept fucking with my life. I thought I was strong. I thought I was tough. But you were right, in Carla's office. I was letting you do it all. I had to figure that out, and figure out why, so I could not do it anymore. I think I've figured that part out now."

She stopped then and was quiet. He waited for her signal. There was already a lot he wanted to say. But she said, "Don't say anything yet. I'm not done, and I need to get it all out. But I need something to drink. You want a beer?"

Taking her at her word, he merely nodded. She went to her little fridge and pulled out a bottle of water and a bottle of beer. She handed him the beer and sat down. Then she drank about half the water.

"Okay. I think I let you run things—you and Garrett—because it gave me something to fight against. That sounds crazy, I know, but, well—I _am_ certified crazy. I think it was a way of dealing with my anger. I didn't realize it, but I did know I liked the way we fought. Well, I didn't like it, but I wanted it. But then it became a habit, and I lost control of everything. That probably doesn't make sense to anyone but me, but anyway."

It did make sense, and he wanted to tell her so, but he kept his mouth shut. She was talking fast, and he was focusing hard, trying to keep up. After almost every sentence there was something he wanted to say, but she was moving on so fast, he had no chance of remembering all his own thoughts. So he just went with it. He had no idea if this monologue would end in them being together or not, but at least she was finally talking.

"So, I guess my point is I understand that it's not all your fault. And I actually feel a lot better understanding that I had some power to fuck things up too. Which is twisted, I know. But it helps. And the cheating thing, with what's-her-name, I can get that you got drunk and don't remember. It sucks—really—but I can deal with it. The worst part was the pictures, and that was her. That was just so fucking _mean_. I feel _lots_ better about all that after today. It felt awesome when my bag connected with her face.

"I figured things out, and here's where I am. All the stuff in the rearview? I've dealt with it. I understand my part in it. I've forgiven you for your part. I understand what you were trying to do, and I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I mean, you really suck at the not hurting me thing, but I do know you don't mean to."

He was starting to feel hopeful—so hopeful, in fact, that his heart was racing. She'd forgiven him. The impulse to touch her was growing with every sentence that seemed to bring her closer to him. But she still wasn't done.

"But I can't go back to any of that. That was some toxic shit. It felt abusive, even though you're always so nice."

Just like that, everything in him deflated. She wasn't done, though.

"So if we try again, we have to start fresh, and go slow. We can't pick up where we left off, because we left off in fucking Hell. I want to try to be with you, but we have to head down a whole new road. We have to be equals. You can't try to force me to do shit. You can't keep shit from me or lie to me. And we have to go slow. Like, turtle slow. Snail. Glacier. I don't want to get caught up in you and lose myself again. It doesn't go well for me. I have to learn to be your partner, and you have to learn to let me."

Now he was just dizzy, and he didn't trust himself to understand what she'd just said. He sat still, trying to process, afraid to feel hopeful again.

She finished her water and leaned back with a big sigh. "Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."

As he sorted through everything she'd laid on him, he understood with a soaring heart that she wanted to try again. But he also realized that he had some things he wanted to say, too. He didn't know how she'd receive them, but this was the time to say them, he thought, even if it meant screwing up the chance she'd just offered him.

"God, Frank. You have no idea how glad I am to have another chance. I love you so much. I've done a lot of soul-searching, too, during all these months. And I need some things, too, I think. I need you to try not to turn everything into a fight. You say you got into the habit of fighting. Well, I got into the habit of keeping things from you because it was easier than fighting. I started thinking all the time, 'how can I bring this up without pissing her off?' It wore me out. And you were hiding stuff, too. You should have told me about Martin's offer yourself. That was a big deal. We both need to be straight with each other. I'm good with going slow—I think it's the right thing—but I think more than anything, we need to be better about talking to each other. Just in general."

Frank laughed—she laughed hard. Juice was confused. "What's funny?"

"That's exactly what Happy said we needed. I'm just finding it really hysterical that your torture guy had such great relationship advice. We're in pretty dire straits if _he_ understands us better than we do."

Now he was laughing, too. Hap was good at reading people, actually, when he gave enough of a shit to pay attention, but Juice was thrilled to see Frank showing such glee. When he collected himself, he asked, "So how do we do slow?"

She settled down, too. "I'm not totally sure. Just, well, going on like we have been, maybe, but talking about deeper stuff? No physical stuff for a while? Not spending every free second together? I'm okay with playing that part by ear. I just need to be smart and take the steps when I'm ready for them."

He'd been prepared to wait forever for her to even decide. Now that she'd decided she wanted to try again, he could wait a very long time to get her back into bed. He was pretty sure. Though now the possibility was there again, so waiting wouldn't be easy. Yeah, he'd be jacking off even more than usual for awhile. "Okay. I can do that. I'm going to head home now, let you get some sleep. I'll call you. Tomorrow too soon?"

"No, I'd like that." They got up from the couch, and she walked him the few steps to the door.

This was more awkward than it had been even yesterday. Yesterday he knew not to touch her. Today, he didn't. But he decided to play it safe. "Okay, good night."

Frank put her hand on his cheek and let her thumb move over his cheekbone. He closed his eyes and savored her touch, and then he felt her hand slide around to his neck. As he felt the gentle pressure of her hand pulling him to bend toward her, he opened his eyes. She was coming in for a kiss.

His heart was banging around in his chest like a clockwork monkey. At the feathery satin touch of her lips on his, he groaned and put one hand on the small of her back. He kept his tongue to himself, but he did lightly suck her lower lip, drawing her piercing just a bit into his mouth. They kissed like that, sweetly, for several delightful seconds; then Frank pulled back.

She was flushed and panting a little. He was panting, too, and he could feel the blood under his cheeks.

"Good night, Juice. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Sweet dreams."

Sweet dreams, indeed.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **Sending out another thanks to my readers and reviewers. I'm glad you're enjoying the story, and I'm so grateful you've been hanging on as Frank and Juice deal with their many issues! :)

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 19:  
**"She's Automatic," Rancid

Advanced ballet had turned out to be an optimistic choice, after so many years away. It had thoroughly kicked her ass for the first few weeks. But she was on it now, and was usually among the first to pick up new choreography. She loved it. But not everyone thought it was so great that she had suddenly gotten so much better. Ballet dancers were . . . competitive. Even the ones taking rinky-dink classes like this.

Frank walked out of the studio behind a cluster of chatting young women. She was enjoying these classes a lot. She was taking three—yoga, advanced ballet, and world dance. She'd recently picked up the world dance class because it was new and had sounded interesting. It was—the instructor was great, and the hand drummers were fantastic—but the students were maybe a bit too much of the gossipy housewife set. People were more serious in yoga and ballet. But they still had their cliques, and Frank wasn't someone who "cliqued." She was just now learning that it didn't cause actual physical pain to be pleasant to strangers.

So she followed behind, out of the studio, into the dressing room, where she took off her practice skirt and pulled a black knit mini over her pale pink leotard and tights. She changed her toe shoes for purple Chucks. She pulled on her leather motorcycle jacket, grabbed her bag, and was first out of the dressing room. She'd shower at home. She headed out of the building.

Juice was parked right in front of the building. He was sitting sidesaddle on his bike, his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His arms were crossed over his kutte. He was wearing his sunglasses and that solar flare smile. "Hey, baby. Wanna take a ride?"

Elwood was parked about two cars down the line. But so what? She grinned. "Where you taking me?"

His only response was an even broader smile. He handed her her helmet and strapped his on. He mounted the bike, kicking the engine to life. Helmet on, she mounted behind him, as close as she could get, and wrapped her arms tight around his waist.

"Fuck, baby." He only muttered it, but she could hear him, even over the idle of the Dyna. She knew what he was feeling.

As they pulled away, she looked back to see a gaggle of gaping ballerinas.

-oOo-

Frank was nervous. Petrified, really. Seriously considering bailing on this whole night. Honestly—who would even notice if she weren't at Happy and Viv's wedding bash? She'd never even met Viv.

Her phone rang; it was Juice. She thought about not answering, but that was dumb. "Hey, you."

"Hey, baby. Just checking in, making sure you haven't talked yourself out of tonight."

She'd been quite forthright about her lack of enthusiasm for going back to the clubhouse. She hadn't seen anybody but Juice, Happy, and Gemma in more than a year, and in that time she'd tried to off herself and spent several months in a psychiatric hospital. Not exactly an auspicious return.

Juice hadn't put any pressure on her to go, but she knew it was time. The club was her family, too. She was his old lady. Time to let everyone see she was back and they were okay. Their relationship was moving at a measured pace, but it was on track.

They'd been going slow now for coming up on a month. It was good. They were being really high school. Well, middle school. They'd kissed, but no tongue—sweet little good-night kisses. And nothing else. Mostly, they were still just hanging out. But they talked all the time. About a lot of shit.

Most importantly, maybe, he'd given her a reason for staying away when she'd gotten to San Francisco—a reason she could understand. It had been maddening to get blown off like that, when she was already so freaked out about living away from home, and about being sent off the way she'd been. When he told her what had been going on with the club at the same time, and how he was worried his loyalty was in question, she understood. Immediately.

She would have understood then, too. Okay, sure, she still would have been pissed, but she wouldn't have felt so fucking _abandoned_. When she asked him why he hadn't just told her, his answer sucked. Sometimes he really was a moron. But at least she knew now.

She'd also found out about Juice's difficult childhood and the years before he came to Charming. Most of that was new information, because she'd been a totally self-absorbed shithead before and had never fucking asked.

She'd told him about her childhood, too. He had a better sense of hers, because of Garrett, and because he'd spent a lot of time at the house she'd grown up in. But she talked more about her mom and dad. She didn't really like to talk about them, because they were an ache that had never gone away. But she told him, and he'd pulled her into his arms. She'd rested with her back against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, his arms around her, and talked about the way her mom would sit on the back deck sketching songbirds and flowers, and how her dad spent his Sundays at his desk in the basement, tying flies and listening to Niners football or Giants baseball, depending on the season. It was sweet. It felt good. Very, very good.

She really wanted to get naked with him.

It was getting bad. Frank knew Juice was struggling, too. Sometimes, when they said good night, he was literally shaking. She was the one with the emergency brake set, and she was trying hard to remind herself why they were going slowly like this. All these talks, these easy times with him that made her want to rip his clothes off—that was what they needed to focus on. Once they got naked, talking was going to take a back seat. If it was even invited along at all.

"I'm freaked out, though, I won't lie."

"Buzzy freaked out?" She'd described what it felt like when she lost control. He'd taken it to heart.

"Nope, the sane kind. You coming soon?"

"'Bout an hour. We'll only stay as long as you want, okay? And the guys will be fine. No sweat. I'll see you soon, baby."

-oOo-

As soon as they'd dismounted in the T-M lot, Juice grabbed her hand. She saw Phil and a couple of guys she didn't recognize sitting at the picnic table nearest the clubhouse door. They weren't wearing kuttes, so probably hangarounds.

"It's gonna be okay, Frank. They love you. It's me they've been pissed at." He kissed her forehead. "You ready?"

She stood up straight. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

Phil just waved and said "Hey, Frank." That was easy. They went into the party.

It was pretty small for a SAMCRO party. There weren't even that many girls around. Most of them seemed focused on a big, gorgeous black guy Frank didn't know. There was a live band set up by the stripper pole, but no one was playing yet. Juice leaned down and spoke in her ear. "That's Viv's band. I guess they're going to play tonight. They're good."

Once it was known she was there, Frank ended up in a kind of receiving line, just standing there getting hugs. Bobby was first up. "Hey, sugar. You doin' good?"

"Yeah, Bobby, I'm good. You?"

"You know it."

They all took their turn: Chibs, Jax, even Tig, though she didn't feel entirely comfortable with him. Rat grinned and nodded at her from behind the bar. They all asked if she was okay. Chibs told her they'd missed her. Jax kissed the top of her head.

It was weird, but in a really, really good way. Maybe Juice was right. Maybe these guys were comfortable with crazy.

Then Happy came up. He didn't hug her. He just put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Good to see you here, little girl. Real good." He was just never going to call her by her actual name. But she'd sorta decided she liked him calling her "little girl." Which was weird, but whatever.

He gestured to someone across the room. "Want you to meet my wife." A fantastic-looking woman with long, wavy black hair came up to them, and Happy put his hand on her back. Frank was moved by the intimacy of that simple gesture.

Frank was a little intimidated by Vivian. She was so cool looking. Beautiful—stunning—but not in an ordinary way. She was seriously hot. Frank found it hard not to stare at her. She knew what Hap and she had been through, and somehow it made her feel even more dazzled.

"Vivian, this is Frank. Juice's old lady."

Happy gave Frank a look as he said the last two words, as if he wanted her to confirm. She smiled, and he nodded.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Vivian told Frank to call her Viv. Then Bobby came up and complained, "Viv, you gotta do somethin' about your guy over there. I'm thinkin' there's gonna be bloodshed at your party otherwise."

Everybody looked over at the black guy encircled by women. Frank noticed that a lot of the Sons were solo. Not a good situation at a SAMCRO party. Viv laughed and went off the solve the problem. Within a few minutes, the band was playing. The guy was her guitarist.

After that, with the band playing, the Sons drinking and playing pool, and everybody just being normal around her, Frank felt comfortable and good. Juice went to play pool with Chibs, and Frank sat at the bar with Tara.

Tara, too, asked the first question everybody had asked. "How are you, Frank?"

Frank sighed a little, but she smiled. She got why everybody was asking. "I'm good. I really am. I was scared to be here tonight, but it's turning out okay."

"Yeah, this group is a lot to handle under any circumstances." She took a sip from her beer. "I heard you had a little dustup with one of the Crow Eaters."

The Sons and their women were terrible gossips. They kept all kinds of secrets, but if something wasn't marked secret, it was fair fucking game. Buncha fishwives. "Yeah. She—she went someplace she shouldn't."

Tara laughed. "You were right to fight her. That's how it works around here. You have to claim what's yours."

Just then, Gemma walked up. She'd heard what Tara said. "She's right, baby. We all have a story about a sweetbutt taking advantage. But once they know you'll fight for your claim, they move their attention elsewhere."

Frank found this discussion unsettling. "It's like we're goddamn lions or something. Circling around each other, staking out our territory. I think it's all just weird." She didn't want to talk about Juice cheating. She wasn't ashamed of what she'd done to that smug slut, but she really, really wanted to put that whole thing in storage.

Gemma sat down and lit a joint. She took a drag and blew it out to the side. "Sure it's weird, but it's how it is. I did something a lot like you did, darlin'. Took out a sweetbutt for stepping out of her place. You can't just take that shit. We take enough as it is." She offered the joint to Frank, who declined. Tara took a hit and passed it back to Gem.

Frank heard Juice laugh and looked over at the pool table. He and Chibs were giving each other shit as they played. He looked happy and relaxed. She opened up her head and looked around a little. Was she really over the cheating thing? Did she really forgive him? Trust him?

Yes. The answer to all of it was yes. She was over it. She did forgive him. She trusted him not to do it again. More than that, though, she trusted herself. She knew that if he did stray, it wouldn't kill her. It would probably end them, but she'd get through it. She loved him, she wanted him, but she didn't _need_ him. That was new information.

"Frank, you okay?" Tara put her hand on Frank's arm.

"Yeah—just thinking. Excuse me." She got up and went to watch Juice play pool.

Viv's band was good. They played blues and old rock, all of it sexy. Frank noticed Happy, leaning against a wall, glass of whiskey in his hand, just staring steadily at his wife. It was sweet as fuck. She was starting to understand him a little, she thought.

The music had a strong beat, and Viv's voice was sultry-sexy. Frank found it impossible to be still. Before she realized it, she was really dancing, alone, standing near a support beam, watching her man play pool. Watching until she'd closed her eyes, anyway.

She felt a hand on her waist and opened her eyes to see Juice regarding her intently. "It's hard to focus on the game when you're moving like that, baby. I'm going to end up in the ring with all these guys, the way they're watching you. And most of them can totally kick my ass." She looked around at a roomful of grinning, lecherous men. Except Happy. Fixated on his wife, he hadn't even noticed.

Tig, deep into a bottle of Patrón, called out, "I'm telling ya—put her on the pole!"

Juice turned sharply, but Frank pulled him back. "It's cool, Juice." She walked up to Tig, whose grin deepened as she approached. She walked right up to him and tipped her head up to look him in the eye. She smiled. "You know you're a fucking asshole, right?"

His grin didn't diminish. "Yeah, doll, I know."

"Good. So long as we're clear. Oh—and the only way I'm ever touching that pole is if I'm shoving it up your ass. So long as we're clear." To a chorus of hoots, she turned and headed back to Juice, who was beaming. She looked back at Tig. He winked at her.

Viv's band—Frank learned they were called Leather—was cooking, and the party was quieting down as everybody paid more attention to the music than the partying. Sons started pairing up, the single men grabbing Crow Eaters, but just holding them close as they listened. Juice racked his cue and pulled her to him.

"You're doing good tonight, Frank. You make me proud. I love you so much."

She wondered how long slow should take. Was there a way to know she was ready for more, that she wouldn't lose herself in him? Was there a way to be sure? She didn't think so. What she was sure of was that she loved him. They were both sober and straight. They'd been talking for weeks. She felt strong. She had the anchors of her life in place. And she wanted him so fucking bad she could barely think of anything else.

She put her hand on his face; he closed his eyes and turned his head into her palm. "Baby," he whispered. She put her other hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down so that she could press her lips to his. At the contact, he groaned and clutched her close. Looping her arms around his neck, she pushed her tongue into his mouth and slid it against his, flicking her stud over it.

It was the first time they'd kissed so deeply since before she'd left for France. Months and months ago. He pulled her even more tightly to him; she was squeezed in his arms. His tongue met hers eagerly until he pulled back with a gasp.

"Fuck, baby. This is too much. We have to stop." He looked around. They were standing in the middle of the clubhouse. She looked around, too; nobody was paying them any mind.

She climbed up on him and wrapped her legs around his hips. The look on his face was almost fear, but he held her close and flexed against her. She felt the pressure of his swollen cock against her core, through their jeans, and all her muscles below her waist clenched. "Frank, what—?"

"I want to go back to my apartment. Now, with you." She nuzzled his neck, and he groaned again. He twisted his neck to force her to meet his eyes.

"Are you sure? You want to . . .?" He didn't finish the question, but she knew what he was asking.

"I don't want to wait anymore." She flexed her hips against him to make sure he was clear about what she meant.

His eyes were deep, dark, and intense. "Baby, are you with me?"

"Always."

She pressed her mouth to his. He turned and walked out of the clubhouse, still holding her, still kissing her.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **LEMONS! LEMONS! LEMONS! (Sorry, but it's been a long damn time for these two, and I'd despaired that they'd ever get back here. I'm excited!)

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy

* * *

**CHAPTER 20:**

"Sway," The Perishers

Jesus Christ. Frank was in his arms. Wrapped completely around him. She fit so fucking well there. And she wanted him to take her home. She didn't want to wait anymore. Jesus Christ.

His heart was pounding. He was painfully hard. The thought of the ride to her apartment was a torment. He almost suggested they just head to the back, but—_thank God!_—his sense prevailed. Not only was he not going to make love to her for the first time in nearly a year in the fucking clubhouse apartment during a fucking party, but that was where he had been with Neela. So he settled Frank even more tightly around his hips, claimed her mouth more completely with his, and walked them out of the clubhouse.

As soon as they'd dismounted in front of her apartment and he'd stowed their helmets, he picked her up again, groaning as her legs clutched him.

"I can walk, you know. I still have control of my limbs." She nestled her head on his shoulder, significantly reducing the power of her protest.

"I'm not letting you go, baby. I am not letting you go."

She lifted her head and peered closely at him. They were standing under a streetlight, and he could see that her glasses were smudged from their kisses. He pulled them off and tucked them into his kutte pocket. Then he leaned forward and brushed her nose with his. "You still want to do this? I'm okay if you don't." He really wasn't, but he would find a way to be. He wanted her all in.

"I do. I want to be with you. I want you to be inside me again." She whispered the words; he could feel their breath on his face. His eyes blurred with tears. He tried to blink them away, but one slid down his cheek. She saw it and pressed a kiss to it. "I love you."

"Oh, fuck, Frank. I love you so damn much. It's always been you, baby. Just you. You and me."

She leaned back and grinned. "Why are we standing on the street, then?"

-oOo-

When he got her into the apartment, he looked around. Her futon was folded out. Hallelujah! He knelt on it—the opposite side tipped up, and for a second the thought it was going to upend them—and laid her down diagonally on it. He loomed over her, leaning on his hands. "You still on the Pill?" Damn, he hoped so. He didn't have condoms.

"I'm back on it, yeah. We're good." She smiled up at him, her hands plucking at his t-shirt, freeing it from his belt, where the front had been tucked in.

Then he felt her nails gently scratching his belly. He fucking loved that. His eyes rolled back, and he moaned.

"You still like that, I see." She slid her hands around his waist and pulled him down.

"Fuck, baby, you drive me wild." He leaned down to kiss her, sucking her studded tongue into his mouth. At the same time, he ground his hips against hers, his so-fucking-hard cock against the ridge of her pubic bone. She moaned and thrust up hard.

"I want all of you, every way. Jesus, I can't stand it." He softly nibbled his way down her throat, pausing at the base to suck. She was writhing underneath him, panting, and he thought he was going to fucking die. But what a way to go.

He pushed away from her and stood up. She whimpered and reached for him, and he chuckled softly. "I'm coming back, don't worry." He stripped as fast as he could, throwing his clothes, even his kutte, wherever, kicking his boots away.

He was about to lie down with her again when she said, "Wait!"

His first thought was disappointment—hard, heavy, painful. Dear God, if she wanted to stop now. "What's the matter, baby?"

In answer, she sat up and scooted to sit at the edge of the futon, right in front of him. She took his cock in her hand and smiled up at him. "I forgot how perfect you are," she whispered, and then she put her sweet, pierced mouth around him and sucked him down as far as she could, her pierced tongue caressing him constantly.

"Holy fuck!" His head fell back almost violently, and he grabbed her head in both his hands as he thrust his hips against her face. A small part of his brain remembered that he was too big for her to take him all, and he tried to control his movements. But Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! She had his balls in one hand, caressing, the other wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing. She was pistoning him in and out of her mouth in a steadily increasing rhythm until his vision narrowed and spun, and he was shouting incoherently, clasping her hair in his fists. She stayed on him, swallowing, the constriction of her throat muscles keeping him going until he was sure his legs wouldn't hold him any more.

He pulled out of her mouth and turned, landing heavily on the futon next to her, his breath coming in loud, strained heaves. "My God, Frank. Oh, my God."

She leaned over him, smiling. "That was fun."

He realized that she was still completely dressed—her boots and everything. He sat up and pushed her back onto the futon, pressing her flat with his body, kissing her deeply. He could taste himself faintly in her mouth. He sucked her lower lip and bit down lightly, pulling a little, until she arched hard into him.

He pushed away and stood again, and again she whimpered. This time, though, he picked up a small, booted foot and rested it on his thigh. He unlaced it and pulled it off, then her sock, taking a moment to massage her arch before he laid her foot back down. He did the same with her other foot, slowly and gently.

Then he straddled her legs, kneeling, and unbuttoned her jeans. He spread the fly wide and leaned down to press a kiss to her belly. The little underwear she was wearing was covered with tiny strawberries. He didn't know why, but the sight of those sweet little panties—there was a little red bow, too!—made his heart spasm.

He took her jeans and panties in his hands and pulled them down in one long, sharp move. Her hips came up to help him. He cast them away and came back down on the futon, collecting her legs in his arms, lifting her hips up to meet his seeking mouth.

He almost wept again when his face touched her beautiful, smooth, shaved mound. He nuzzled her, loving the way she gasped and twitched at his light touch. "Fuck, baby. You are so fucking perfect."

He pressed his lips to her clit and sucked. She took in a loud, almost screaming breath and spoke it out, "Oh, fuck, Juice. Oh fuck, yeah."

He sat back on his heels, her legs caught in his arms, her hips in his hands, holding her to his mouth so that only her shoulders and head were still on the bed, and he let himself thoroughly indulge in the sweet, seductive taste of her. He sucked and licked and nuzzled until she was moving so much he had a hard time keeping track of her. She was writhing and flexing, chanting, "_fuck, fuck, fuck,_" mostly under her breath.

He laid her back down and knelt on the floor at the side of the futon, wrapping her legs around his neck and going back in. He pushed his tongue into her hot, soaking core and then licked upward to her clit, firming his tongue and flicking rapidly. He felt her nails in his mohawk, scrabbling and scratching. And then her head and shoulders were off the bed and she was screaming, "_Oh fuck yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Juice! God!_" loud enough that Smeagol went running into the bathroom.

When her spasms finally stopped, he loosened her legs from around his neck. They felt boneless, and he grinned. He got back on the futon and lay next to her. His hand on her spasming belly, under the t-shirt she was still wearing, he pressed tiny kisses all over her face.

"You okay?" He smiled down at her; he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

But she didn't answer. She just looked up at him, her eyes wide and shimmery. He realized that she was shaking. Really shaking—it wasn't just an effect of her orgasm.

"Frank? You okay?" She still didn't answer. Instead, she turned her head into his forearm, where he was propped next to her. He thought she was going to cry. _Oh, shit. Oh, shit!_ Oh, please, this couldn't go south. Not now, not when things had just been so incredibly hot and amazing. He didn't know if he could come back from this. It was so hard to be close to her, to want her, to need her, and not to have her. Oh, shit.

"Baby, talk to me. Please talk to me. What's wrong?" She turned back to face him. She _was_ crying. _Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck_. "What did I do, baby? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Finally, she took a big, unsteady breath, and spoke. "Nothing. It's okay. It's so good. It's just—I don't know. Everything feels too big."

She'd told him enough about what happened when she lost control to make him worried about the way she was describing what she was feeling now. He put his hand on her face and looked her in the eye. "Hey. Hey. It's okay, right? It's just you and me. Let's stop and chill for a minute, okay? Let's just be chill."

She nodded and took another shaky breath. He rolled onto his back and brought her with him, nestling her against his side. She laid her head on his chest and put her hand on the tattoo over his heart. After a moment, he felt the gentle shaking of her shoulders that told him she was crying again. Her tears freaked him the fuck out. Frank had never been a crier.

But he lay calmly, stroking her arm, and let her cry. When she quieted, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

He kissed her head and whispered back, "I love you."

Eventually, they slept.

-oOo-

He was alone in the apartment when he woke in the morning. Just as he started to shift into worry, he saw that she'd left a note: _Pastries. BRB._ She'd signed it with a heart with a little anarchy symbol in it. He smiled and got up to take a piss, grabbing his jeans on the way. When he came out, he wandered around her little room, checking things out.

Almost everything in it was familiar to him. Frank liked a small life. She had a blank stretched canvas propped on her easel and a stack of four paintings leaning against a wall. He flipped through them—all new, and all beautiful. Obviously Frank. She was back. It warmed his heart to see them.

He got coffee started in her coffeemaker and wandered around some more. Smeagol came up and rubbed his ankles, so he squatted down for some quality time with the fat beast.

He eventually made his way to her desk. Lying on top of her closed Mac was her sketchpad, and he picked it up and started flipping through it, curious about her drawing. He'd expected to find, well, sketches. And he did. But what he really found was a lot of words. Her small, precise handwriting—more like printing than cursive—filled pages of the large book. She wrote on some blank pages, but mostly she wrote over sketches. He started reading without recognizing what he was reading or even, really, _that_ he was reading. Once he knew what it was, he knew he needed to stop. This was a terrible intrusion. But he couldn't. He kept trying to put the book away, but then something would catch his eye.

He was so involved that he didn't hear her come into the building. He didn't hear her until she opened her own door. And then she just stood there, pink box from the bakery down the street in her hand, staring at him, her mouth open.

He dropped the sketchpad onto her desk. "I—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She stormed over to the desk, dropped the pink box on it, and snatched up the pad. "Are you _kidding_ me? You asshole!"

Stupid was like a genetic defect in him. "Wait, Frank. I'm sorry. I didn't know what it was. I thought it was just a sketchpad."

"Why do you think that's better? It's my private fucking shit! Jesus! You need to go."

He wasn't leaving like this. He wasn't. They were going to talk, goddammit. If he'd really managed to fuck it up like _this_, he was at least going to go down fighting. "No!"

"_What_?"

"I'm not leaving until we talk. We need to be better about talking, right? Well, here's a chance. I made a mistake. I'm going to make them—a lot. I can't seem to help it. But I really was not trying to snoop."

"You were going through my sketchbook!" She was really pissed; her normally pale, icy eyes were dark and blazing.

"Which was out on your desk. Frank, I honestly had no idea that your sketches were private. I thought it was like your paintings—you leave those out, you display them. I thought it was the same thing with that book."

She sighed. Maybe he'd been persuasive. "How much did you read?"

And here was the bad part. "It took me a minute to understand what I was looking at, but still—more than I should have. I'm sorry."

"Jesus, Juice. You have no idea how tired I am of hearing those words come out of your mouth. Fuck." Seemingly calm now, she walked over and picked up the box of pastries. She set it on her little round table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She looked over at him. "You want coffee?"

He went with it. "Uh, yeah. Please." He walked over and sat down at the table. She sat, too. She pulled a little round pastry with a red fruit filling out of the box and picked at it.

Juice looked in the box and saw she'd gotten pineapple danish for him—his favorite. He smiled a little and picked one up. "Thanks for this, baby."

After a few minutes during which they sipped coffee and nibbled breakfast sweets, Frank said, "I have to be able to trust you, Juice. This doesn't work _at all_ if I don't feel like I can trust you."

He finished his danish and sucked his fingers clean. "You _can_ trust me."

As a reply, she raised her eyebrows and nodded toward her desk.

"That was a mistake—an accident. If I'd known the book was off-limits, I would _never_ have opened it. If I'd seen a journal on the desk I would _never_ have read it. I swear." He leaned forward and grabbed her arms. "Frank, I _swear_."

She regarded him silently, and Juice began to despair. Then she said, "Fuck. Okay."

"Okay?" He couldn't believe she let him up that fast.

"Okay. I'm trying not to fight so much, right? It'd be awesome if you'd try not to be such an asshole. That would make the not-fighting thing way easier."

"I'm working on it, baby. Trust me."

"Yeah. That's the thing, isn't it?" She stood and set her empty mug in the sink. "Read anything that scared you?"

He hadn't. He'd read some things that made his heart hurt. But mostly, he'd just come away with a keen sense of how much strength she didn't even know she had. He went over to her. She leaned against the sink and looked up at him. He framed her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Not at all. Just made me love you more."

Without looking away from his eyes, she slid the fingers of both hands into his waistband and pulled him close. "Asshole."

"Yep. Accidentally." He brushed her lips with his.

She caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit down softly, making him groan. Letting go, she asked, "You want to try again with the crazy girl?"

He didn't want to go too fast—he could still sense rocks on this road. She hadn't been ready last night, and they'd hit a snag this morning. He felt like it would be a good idea to take a step back. But now she was climbing up on him again.

He crossed his arms under her ass and caught her weight. "Wait, baby. Are you sure? Maybe we should slow down again."

"I don't want to wait. If I wait, last night will just get bigger in my head. Besides, I just want you. I don't want to wait."

There was only so much argument he was capable of, with her wrapped around him like this, nibbling his neck. He walked her to her futon and laid her down. As he pulled off his jeans, she took off the sweats and t-shirt she'd worn to go to the bakery. And then she was lying there, completely naked. She was beautiful. God.

She'd filled out—a lot since he'd last seen her bare body. Then she'd been frail and scary thin. Now she looked more like she did when they first met. Better, even. Her arms and legs, her belly had new definition. The dancing, he supposed. He thought about the day he'd surprised her at her dance class. He'd watched her through the window during her class, entranced by the way her body moved. That had been outrageously sexy. "Fuck, baby, you're gorgeous."

She smiled and stretched, rolling to her side a little as she did. Then he saw unfamiliar ink on the back of her hip. "Hold up—what's that?" He knelt on the bed and rolled her over; she went willingly, with a smile. She had an Eiffel Tower on her ass. Detailed, with a tiny girl, arms outstretched, standing under it. "That's awesome. Did you get it in Paris?"

"Yep. My best souvenir." She started to roll back toward him, but he kept his hand on her leg and leaned down to kiss the new ink.

His lips still on her skin, he said, "I love it. It's hot." Then he started kissing her everywhere—her ass, her back, her legs. He turned her back over and kissed her belly, her hips, her arms. He lifted her slightly to settle her farther back on the bed, and then he lay over her, his leg between hers. Propped on one arm, the other wrapped around and holding her ass, he took her left breast, the one with the ring through the nipple—_fuck_, he'd missed these piercings—into his mouth, suckling firmly. She gasped loudly and arched, grabbing his head in her hands. He bit down on the ring and shook it, and she cried out.

Then he switched to her right breast and took that one, and its bar piercing, into his mouth. By now, Frank's hips were bucking and gyrating against him and he was losing his mind with need. He shifted his hand from under her and slid it between her legs. Oh, Jesus, she was wet. He slid his fingers over and between her folds. She clutched his shoulders, moaning, whimpering, her whole body lifting up to his. He slid two fingers into her and she came immediately, her body arching so high he had to let go of her breast.

"Oh, fuck, baby. I need you so bad." His words came out in a growl.

As she was settling, but while she was still spasming, he moved on top of her and pushed himself in. Jesus Christ, she felt good, hot and snug, wet and satiny. She clamped around him immediately, and every muscle he had constricted. She gasped, "Oh God, yeah!" and started moving her hips.

He pulled back a little, trying to maintain. "Easy, baby. You feel so good. I missed you so much. I need a second just to be in you, okay?"

She relaxed, and he pushed in as deep as he could and held there, looking down at his love. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. She was flushed and panting. He could not fucking believe he was here with her. _In_ her. She was his again.

The tears came on him fast, and he dropped his head to her shoulder. He felt her hands on his head. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

Without looking up, he laughed a little. "I just love you so much. I thought about this for months. To have you back—that's everything to me. I guess my feelings are pretty big, too."

She took his head in her hands and stared into his eyes. "I love you," she whispered, and began moving her hips again. He groaned and matched her, sliding deep into her and pulling out, propped on his elbows, grunting.

He was getting too close, too fast, so he rolled them over, the few moments it took for her to get her seat on him serving as a distraction to give him more control over himself. But, shit, instead of going to her knees, she put her feet under her. The position canted her back a bit and changed their angle and penetration substantially—and all to the good. They looked at each other and both grinned.

She used her feet as leverage, her hands on his thighs behind her, and bounced hard on him, each landing bringing him deeper and making her moan. As she escalated, her pace increased, as did the volume of her little moans. Fuck, he was going to come. He forced himself to hold off, biting on his lower lip until he tasted blood. And then Frank gasped and sat up straight, looking surprised. He knew that look. He loved that look. He grabbed her hips and released his self-control. He slammed her onto him, grunting loudly as she squealed—she really squealed—and they came together.

She collapsed on top of him, and he folded her in his arms. Both too spent to move, they dozed in that position, while he was still inside her.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 21:  
**"You Drive Me Wild," The Runaways

Frank woke up horny as hell. She was lying on her belly, with Juice lying mostly on her back. He had his arm around her, his hand between her legs, pressing on her clit. His mouth was on her ear.

"Wake up, baby. Wake up, wake up, wake up," he whispered. He moved his fingers on her clit.

She moaned and flexed. "Fuck, Juice."

"That's what I was thinking, too." He took his hand away and shifted, spreading her legs and settling in between them. He lifted her hips and pushed firmly into her with a sigh. Then he propped on his hands, looming over her back.

Jesus, he felt so good. He filled her and stretched her in all the right ways. And this position—something about this position, and the way his cock bent slightly downward, hit her in _exactly_ the right way. He hadn't moved yet; he was just holding deep inside her. She pushed back, getting his cock to rub right where she needed it. She rocked slightly, hitting that spot over and over until she was shaking, her breath coming in little whines.

Then he took over, gasping, "Jesus Christ." He pushed her down flat and drilled into her, then pulled back slowly, slowly, until he was almost out. Then he slammed into her again with a grunt. Over and over he slammed and pulled back, slammed, and pulled back. Every time he hit home, he grunted hoarsely, and she cried out "yeah!" in that gaspy little whine. His cock sliding firmly over that spot with every hard stroke, her pierced nipples pressed tightly to the mattress, their metal adornments shifting as his body moved hers each time he slammed into her and pulled out—holy fuck, she was coming so hard. So goddamn hard. She screamed and screamed, her fists clutching wads of the sheet. He was moving fast in her now, his grunts becoming a kind of continuous groan, until he yelled, "_Fuck, baby. God, now_."

When he was done, her dropped onto her back, breathing heavily. They were both slick with sweat. She loved the feel of his weight on her like this. She felt calm and safe. And in this particular moment, she also felt just this side of comatose with satiation.

They'd been back together, really together, for more than two months now. They were still keeping a steady pace, not spending every second together, but Juice stayed over three or four nights a week. She'd resisted staying at his place. Too many memories. Juice hadn't fought her on that—at least not yet. He'd asked, she'd said no and explained why, and he'd dropped it. And no one had mentioned living together again.

"Morning, baby." He kissed her shoulder.

"Good morning. You're like the best alarm clock ever." She turned her head a little so she could see him. "What time is it anyway?"

He looked over at her desk. "'Bout ten minutes to ten."

She had a session with Carla at 10am. "What?! Fuck! I take it back. You're fired!" She pushed him off her—well, she pushed, and he moved off her—"Oh, fuck. And now I reek of sex. Fuck." She ran to the bathroom to try to clean up as well as she could.

She was dressed and out of the apartment at 9:58. Juice was still lying on her futon, his arms crossed behind his head, grinning. He looked sexy as hell. She wanted to punch him.

-oOo-

She trotted into Carla's office at 10:30, grinning sheepishly. "Hi."

Carla looked up from her desk. "I'm surprised you didn't just reschedule—this is pretty late."

"I know. Sorry. My alarm didn't go off." Well, he did go off, inside her, in fact. Just not in time for her to make this appointment.

Carla smiled and came around her desk to the leather chairs. "Well, I hope you're doing okay, because I don't think we can manage any breakthroughs in twenty minutes."

"I'm good. Really good. Excellent, even."

"Things are good with Juice?"

They were. They were great. They were . . . easy. Which was almost a little scary. She was starting to wait for the other shoe. "Yeah—they're perfect. I'm happy."

"And you haven't broken any more noses?"

"You're going to ask me that every single week forever, aren't you? No further noses have deserved to be broken. I'll let you know should that situation change." Carla had taken Frank's altercation with the skanky scuzzbox remarkably in stride. Frank had come to her next session right after that mess determined to lay it out there and fight for herself. But Carla hadn't thought it unhealthy. Imprudent, yes. Unacceptable, even. But not irrational.

So the question she managed to ask every single week, Frank suspected, amounted to Carla _giving her shit_. Her therapist. Giving her shit.

She was a lot cooler than Frank had ever given her credit for.

"Excellent. There _is_ something we should talk about, though. It's been seven months since your release. I think you've been doing very well—far better, in fact, than I expected when we first met. So I want to give you something to think about in the following week. In my opinion, you'd do fine without weekly sessions. So I'd like you to think about whether you'd be comfortable meeting once or twice a month. We could even talk about ending therapy altogether."

Frank was stunned. She'd gotten used to seeing Carla every week. She'd gotten used to talking to Carla. Shit, Carla knew more about what was going on in her life, and with Juice, than anyone else. She'd started out resenting the hell out of therapy, but somewhere on the line, she'd begun to trust Carla. Maybe when she hadn't fought Frank's push for freedom.

Although once Frank had wanted little more than to get the hell out of these sessions, now the thought of not coming here scared her. Carla was her last safety net.

She just sat there, blinking. Eventually, Carla smiled. "Something to think about this week, Frank. We don't have to decide today." Her brass clocked chimed. "And that's time. Think about it. Don't panic. We'll decide what's right. Okay?"

Frank got up and walked out, feeling dazed.

-oOo-

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Frank kicked Elwood's fender viciously and pulled out her phone. She dialed Juice.

"Hey, baby. You home already?" She'd spent the weekend in San Francisco with Martin and Claude. She'd finally sturdied her spine enough to do the schmooze tour they wanted. It went okay. Not something she was ever going to enjoy. But she'd had a good time with Martin and Claude.

"No, I'm not. I'm on 160. On the shoulder. Elwood just totally bailed on me. Maybe permanently. There's smoke. Of course he did it in the middle of fucking nowhere. FUCK!" She kicked the fender again.

"Frank, smoke where? What's it look like?"

"Engine. Black. Really stinks."

"Okay, get the fuck away from the car. I'll be there as fast as I can. Where are you exactly?"

"East of Antioch. You know I'm not good with distance, but there hasn't been anything since Antioch. Like I said, fucking nowhere."

"I'm coming, but I'm probably 30 away. You stay far away from the car, Frank."

"Okay." She ended the call and put her phone in her pocket. Then she went back to the car to grab her bags. While she was reaching for her messenger bag, flames shot out from under the dash, narrowly missing her arm. She jumped back, landing on her ass on the shoulder. That was close. She decided to keep that little detail to herself.

It didn't take long after that for Elwood to be a fireball. But no one stopped. No cops came by. She sat on the shoulder, upwind of and at a distance from her burning car, as probably hundreds of cars passed her. Wow. People really sucked.

Juice didn't, though. He was there in the wrecker in 20 minutes. She stood as he pulled onto the shoulder. He jumped out and ran up to her, pulling her into his arms. "Jesus! Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good. I feel bad for kicking Elwood. He was really sick."

Juice kissed her head and led her quickly to the wrecker. "You and that car. Weird. Stay put." He pulled a big fire extinguisher and finally put Elwood out of his misery. What was left was a blackened husk. Frank was sad.

Juice walked back to the wrecker. "We're going to need the flatbed to get it out of here." He radioed the garage and had Bobby send Joey and Pepboy, the Prospects, out for it.

Frank tried to get into the wrecker, but she was barely tall enough to reach the door handle. Even the step was uncomfortably high. Being short sucked. Having your car burn out on the side of the road sucked. And after the stress of the weekend in the city, and with her birthday coming up, she was wishing it wasn't going to be more than two weeks before she saw Carla again. The monthly thing had been her own idea, but right now it sucked. This day sucked ass. "FUCK!"

Juice came around and saw her struggling. He chuckled—asshole—and helped her in, his hands on her ass. He used the opportunity to slide his fingers between her legs and press them against her.

She looked down at him. "Perv."

He grinned at her. "You know it, baby. I perv on you all damn day." He went around and climbed into the driver's side. She was sitting against the door on the far end of the big bench seat. He looked at her. She looked at him. "What?" she asked, peevishly.

He just beamed that fucking smile at her and grabbed her thigh, pulling her to sit right next to him. He started the truck, put his arm around her, and pulled onto the road.

It was actually nice, sitting next to him like that. Romantic, somehow. She started to get ideas. Then she started to act on them. She put her hand on his crotch. He was pretty hard already. She squeezed, and he filled out completely.

He groaned. "Baby, you're gonna give a whole new reason for calling this truck a 'wrecker.'" But he opened his legs a little.

Oh, she was loving this. It was improving her day dramatically. She smiled up at him, still tucked under his arm. "Can't you multitask? I bet you can. Keep your eyes on the road, now." She opened his belt, then his camo pants. And then she pulled his glorious cock out. She wrapped her hand around it and pumped gently.

"Fuck, Frank," he whispered, panting. He raised his hips toward her. Licking her lips, she scooted back a little and leaned down. She took him into her mouth and sucked.

"Fuck! Oh, baby, baby." He was really panting, thrusting gently as she sucked and swirled her tongue around and over him. "Jesus, this is so damn hot." Now his right hand was in her hair, guiding her pace. As far as she could tell, he was still driving steadily. She kept on him, loving the rush of power she felt. She knew he was close when his hand tightened on her head, pulling her hair a little.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah. Baby, yeah." He came long and hard, his hips up, pulsing, his hand holding her down. She swallowed until he was done.

When he finally relaxed, she sat up and grinned at him. "Hey, look! You didn't kill us!"

He grinned back. "I won't tell you how close it was—because _that_ was totally worth the risk. I think I'm going to sabotage your next car so I can rescue you again. Or maybe we'll just take the wrecker out sometimes." He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

After she put him away and closed his pants, she sat back and pulled his arm over her shoulders again. "Poor Elwood. I'm going to miss him. I loved that guy."

"I know you did. Will you let me buy you a new car?" His hand was playing in her hair; looping through her ponytail. She loved that. She was thinking about shaving her head again, exposing her binary tat, but she was glad to have the pony back.

"Nope. I can buy my own car."

He stopped playing with her hair and glanced down at her. "But I'd like to do it for you. A gift."

"That's sweet, but no. I don't want to land in some fucking Godzilla-size SUV. I'll buy my own car."

"Fuck, Frank. You're going to buy another beater, aren't you?"

"I like old cars. They have character. And Elwood wasn't a beater. He was distinguished." That car had suited her. It was weird. Funky. And pretty much alone among cars.

"It was a Gremlin, Frank. Nothing about that thing was distinguished."

"Well, I saw a '74 Benz 240 parked on the street the other day with a For Sale sign. Tobacco brown. Beautiful. I think it's kismet."

He dropped his head back against the rest for a second, then put his eyes back on the road. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Are you serious? An even older car? You know I worry about you on the road, right? Look what just happened!"

She was having a good time with this little spar. It was more banter than fight, and she knew she'd win. No way she was driving a behemoth like the ones Gemma and Tara drove. "Yeah, yeah. I'm buying my own car, dude. Drop it."

She felt the depth of his sigh as she rested on his chest, but he dropped it.

He was learning. So was she.

-oOo-

She named the '74 Benz Jake. Obviously.

They were heading to Garrett and Marnie's for dinner and games, and she wanted to take her "new" car, but Juice didn't want to drive it, and he didn't like to ride when a woman was driving. Biker bullshit. But she let him off the hook; she'd show off Jake some other time.

They had a great time that night. Marnie was an excellent cook. She didn't get fancy, really, but everything was always delicious. Tonight it was zucchini lasagna. Frank had seconds. She hardly ever had seconds, and her brother and Juice about swallowed their tongues when she went in for round two. But it was good.

Frank took over O duty while Marnie and Garrett cleaned up. Juice sat with them on the floor. O was a hoot—a day shy of a year old, crawling everywhere, trying to walk, babbling nonstop. He laughed all the time. And he really did love punk music. So they were listening to Pixies, bouncing around on the floor. O clapped almost to the beat and wiggled his butt.

She looked over at Juice, who was just sitting there, watching them. "Come on, dude. You're being a square. You gotta move!" She lifted O's hands, putting him on his feet. He immediately started flexing his knees and hooting. "Good on you, ya little hooligan. Look at you skanking!"

"Hey."

He'd spoken quietly, and he was looking weird. She wrinkled her brow at him. "What's up? You're vibey. It's never good when you're vibey. I feel trouble." She was in a great mood, so she was mostly giving him shit, but there was a little thread of real worry in there, too.

"You ever think about this?" He scooted closer to them and brushed O's soft brown hair back from his eyes.

She was confused. "About what?"

"Kids."

Oh, holy hell. Yep, trouble. "You mean having them? No. Not anymore. No kids."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I'm crazy and you're a criminal. We aren't parenting stock."

He looked hurt—but fuck, he _was_ a criminal. It didn't bother her, but it didn't make for a steady, stable, kid-friendly life. "You're not crazy, Frank."

"Dude, I did time in a nuthouse. I'm crazy. Just because I figured out how to deal doesn't make me sane."

"You're so good with him." Juice nodded at O. "You'd be a great mom."

She was starting to feel a little panicky. Could this be a deal-breaker? It hadn't even _occurred_ to her. She tried to focus and stay calm. She pulled O onto her lap and handed him a toy. "Kids are maximum stress, all the time. I don't want to have a kid and not be able to deal. I won't be that kind of mother. And who the hell knows what's going on in your life from one day to the next. Jesus. No. No kids." A sharp noise came from the kitchen, and she turned to look. "This feels like it's going to be a fight, and I'm scared. Can we please not do it in front of my brother and Marnie?"

He looked over toward the kitchen, too, and didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then, "Yeah. But we need to talk about this." Skipping right over the part where she said she was scared.

Fuck.

They stayed, and played games after O went to bed, but Frank was distracted, and she could tell Juice was, too. Garrett and Marnie were onto them. They kept casting concerned looks at each other, but neither said anything. Frank was both glad and afraid when the evening was over and Juice took her home.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **Thanks as ever to **Simone** **Santos**_,_ who is a fantastic writing partner, and to the Freaks, who make fanfic, Twitter, and just life in general much more damn fun. And another thank you to everyone reading, following, and reviewing. I would do this even if no one were paying attention, but I'm so glad you are. :)

**Update: **Since posting this chapter last night, I have revised slightly the scene in the park. No dialogue changes, just the addition of some scene-setting.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 22:**

"Basket Case," Green Day

Frank didn't want kids. That really set Juice back. He wanted them. He hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about it, but he'd always figured he'd have at least a couple. Watching her with Oliver, it seemed obvious to him that she'd want them, too. She was so relaxed and easy. She was the opposite of stressed with him, no matter what his mood. She took to it naturally.

He sat at a stoplight on the way back from Garrett's house, Frank wrapped around him. A left turn took him to her apartment; a right, to his house. She refused to go to his house. She hadn't stepped foot in it since she'd moved out of it. She said there were too many bad memories, and he understood that. But he wanted to be with her there. He missed her presence in it.

And he was really tired of sleeping on that fucking futon. It was like some kind of exotic torture device. She weighed nothing, so it was probably perfectly comfortable for her. He had 80 pounds on her, and he felt every slat.

He turned right.

She knew what he was doing almost immediately, and she pounded on his back. At the next intersection, alongside the city park, she jumped off, almost tripping and barely missing the exhaust—which would likely have meant a trip to the ER for the burn. She turned and headed back in the direction of her apartment, not even bothering to take off her helmet. He parked his bike and went after her.

"Frank, hold up." He grabbed her arm, and she stopped.

She yanked her arm from his grip, unstrapped her helmet, and pushed it at him. "Fucking strong-arm bullshit. You asshole. You know I don't want to go there, and you said you wouldn't try to force me to do shit. Fuck off." She walked on.

He caught up and took her arm again. "We need to talk."

She stopped and turned. "And you thought forcing me to go to your place was a good way to get the conversation started? What the _fuck_?"

He didn't quite know why he'd turned toward his place instead of hers, because there was no way it could go but badly. He was really spun by her assertion she didn't want kids—and he was more spun, he thought, by the realization that it bothered him so much. Talking about kids was really jumping the gun. Shit, he couldn't even get her to his place.

And then he knew. This was about the birthday gift he'd bought her and his dawning awareness that it was the wrong thing.

"You're right. I'm just a little freaked out." He looked around. The park was quiet, empty. "Will you come sit with me?"

After a pointed pause, she sighed and nodded. She yanked her arm free again and walked ahead of him into the park. She went a fair way in before she sat down on a bench tucked away in some shrubs. He followed and sat next to her.

"I don't get why you'd do that. Everything is so good. Why fuck it up?"

She was right. He was beating himself up for being so goddamn reckless and impulsive. He reached for her hand, but she moved it away and crossed her arms over her chest instead. Jesus, why couldn't he think things through all the way? Just once. "God, I'm not trying to fuck it up. But I'm feeling like . . . like I'm on probation, or something. I shouldn't have done that. It was an impulse, and it wasn't good. But there's some stuff we're not talking about, and—I don't know. Tonight I felt shut down. And I hate that you won't come to my place."

Even in the dark, he could see anger flashing in her eyes. "Because it's _your place_. It was supposed to be _our place_. I thought it _was_ our place. Until you set me straight. That hurt like a motherfucker, and I don't want to relive it. I'm not going there."

"I thought you'd forgiven me." If she hadn't, then what were they doing?

She didn't answer right away, and Juice felt the first threads of them unraveling. But then she sighed. "I have. I understand why you did it. But I don't think I could make you understand how bad it hurt. That night, that was the worst thing. Not the skank, not the concussion, none of that. You telling me I didn't have a home with you. That was the worst thing. And you wouldn't let me back in. I feel like going back there now will just set everything loose again. I'm scared."

"I'm sorry, baby. I was so scared for you. All I could think of was getting you out of Charming before somebody hurt you like they hurt Lilli." She'd relaxed her arms, and her hands were laying in her lap. He tried to take on in his. This time she let him. "I'm still scared about you being so close to this shit. And what happened to Viv? Jesus. That's the worst thing for me—knowing how much danger you're in just by being with me."

"I know. I get it. But you promised to let me make that decision, right? You're keeping that promise, no matter what?" She stared at him, and he could see the challenge in her eyes. He met it steadily.

"I am—Frank, I am. I'm going to keep you as safe as I can, but I want you with me. You need to trust me. I feel like you won't go to my place because you haven't forgiven me. You're letting me into your life, but you won't come into mine. Like you don't really trust me."

"It's not that. I'm in your life. I'm at the clubhouse all the time now. Fuck, I'm having my birthday there. It's that house I can't deal with. It's like . . . like your place is where I stored all that crap, those bad feelings, and going back there would be like rooting through it all, stirring it up. I can't explain it any better, Juice. This is why I wanted to go slow. I need to feel this shit out. And I'm not ready for that."

He sat looking at the grass around his feet, trying to figure out how to respond, what to say. There was nothing. "Okay. Okay. I'll take you home—yours."

"You still want to have the kids talk?" Her voice was small.

"I don't know. Yeah, I guess. I already feel like shit, so might as well. At your place, though. Not here." He stood up and held out his hand to her.

-oOo-

Her futon was still folded out, so they sat at her little table instead, facing each other, neither speaking. Juice was feeling roughed up, emotionally. She was right—things had been going well. Beautifully. She'd been relaxed and happy, sassy but not combative. Everything had been smooth. Thinking about kids had come out of the blue, watching her with Oliver, feeling overwhelmed with love for her. Maybe for the first time, he'd clearly seen a future with her, one farther out than just the next day or the next week. Kids had been in that picture, and it had made him happy.

So, feeling romantic and hopeful, he'd asked. And she'd shot him down entirely. Emphatically. It hurt. And then, unbidden, his brain had started looking for things that were hurting him. Like not being with her in his bed. The one with the headboard she'd made, quilted with pieces of their old t-shirts. Both of them.

But she wasn't ready for that, and it was still his goddamn fault.

They were sitting there uncomfortably. Somebody had to start, so he did. "I want kids, Frank."

She laughed dryly, a harsh exhale. "Fuck. Fuck." She got up and stood at the sink, her back to him. "I don't. I'd be a shitty mother."

"I don't think that's true at all. I watch you with Oliver and I see what kind of mother you'd be."

She turned around. "No, you see what kind of _aunt_ I am. Jesus, Juice. Aren't we jumping the gun here? I don't want this to fuck us up. We haven't even figured each other out yet."

"I think we need to work it out sooner rather than later. Are you saying there's a chance you could change your mind?"

"I don't see it. But I'm 25—or I will be tomorrow—and maybe my feelings will change someday. Maybe I won't feel so close to the edge in five years, or ten. I don't know. But I'm telling you what I know right now. I don't want kids. I don't see how they fit into any life we make. I have no idea if that will change, but if we need to figure it out now, we need to do it on the evidence we have now. No kids. If you're not okay with that, then we need to stop. Because what I know I won't stand is you pretending you're okay with it and then trying to change my mind."

She came back to the table and sat down. She seemed dangerously stressed out, and he reached out and took her hands in his. She looked down at them and went on.

"I love you. I feel like we've been going in a good direction until tonight. I'm so scared right now. I'm trying to stand up for myself, but I'm scared out of my head. The only reason we need to fight through this now is if it's a deal-breaker. If it is, then just let me know and let me go. I can't get deeper and have this kick me in the face. And I don't want to end up in a place where I give you what you want because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't."

This had gotten too big. It had somehow turned into a crisis, and he hadn't meant that at all. The thought that he wanted kids more than he wanted her was fucking ridiculous. Why the hell had he picked this fight? And on the eve of her birthday, which also marked one year since she'd swallowed down a bottle of pills with Jack Daniels. This was some twisted shit he was putting on her. He leaned forward and pulled her hands closer to him.

"Let's back up. Baby, you're everything. It's not a deal-breaker. I want you more than anything else. I'm just spun. I have to get my head around it. And I don't want you to make a decision like this for us because you think you're crazy. You're not."

"I feel pretty fucking close to crazy at the moment. I don't think I'd be a good mother. But it's more than that. Juice, think. Lilli, Viv? You tried to send me out of your life because you know I'm not safe in it. I want to be here. I'm in, even knowing all that. I can make that choice. Our kid wouldn't have the choice."

She was making perfect sense. Hell, he was the irrational one in this conversation. He just needed to reset his thinking. And it wasn't like he spent time thinking of himself as a father. It had merely been an assumption he'd made, something he'd wanted, but only vaguely. Until tonight. "You're right. Everything you've said is exactly right. I'm sorry for scaring you. I really am. I don't know why it was so important to me all of a sudden. Let's drop it, though. You're right. No kids."

"Yeah? That's it? It's over?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"If you want it to be, yeah."

She pulled her hands out of his and dropped her head to the table.

"Baby?" She didn't respond; he got up and squatted next to her. "Frank, you okay?" She lifted her head a couple of inches and slammed it back onto the table. Jesus Christ.

"Frank!" He pulled her shoulders up, away from the table, so he could see her face. There was a red spot on her forehead, but it didn't look bad. Her eyes were closed. "Baby, look at me." She opened her eyes and shrugged him off; then she stood and walked over to the other side of the room.

"I just—I need a second." She sat down on the side of the futon, her back to him, curled over onto her knees. She started to rock, side to side. Fuck. He didn't know what to do. Go to her? Leave her alone? Leave? No, not leave. Leaving her like this would be the worst choice he could make. At least he knew that much.

As he stood there, paralyzed by indecision, she stopped rocking. He got himself moving and went to sit on the floor at her feet. He kissed her shoulder. "Talk to me, baby. I'm worried."

She stayed quiet for several more worrisome moments, but then she turned her head to the side, still on her knees, and looked at him. "That was a lot. I just needed to find some focus."

He felt like such a shit. "I'm sorry, Frank. I didn't mean to stress you out like this. What can I do?"

"I'm okay now. But I'm not ready to move on from where we are. The future stuff, I'm not ready. It's too big. I like where we are. I need to stay in this place for a bit and get my feet under me. If that's not enough for you, please just tell me."

He got up from the floor and sat next to her. She was still curled in on herself; he put his arms around her. "It's enough. I just want you with me. That's all."

"Okay, then."

She sent him home not long after. He was worried and hated to leave, but she wanted to be alone. So he left.

-oOo-

She called him the next day and asked him to meet her at Garrett's instead of picking her up. She had gifts for Oliver that wouldn't fit in his saddlebags. It made sense, but he was looking for reasons to be worried, and anything that put any kind of distance between them seemed like a reason to be worried. This was a weird day for her anyway, and he'd added to it the stress of the night before.

Her 25th birthday. Oliver's first. The first anniversary of her suicide attempt—a day when her birthday had been forgotten. He couldn't imagine what was going on in her head. And she had two parties to deal with—dinner and cake for her and Oliver at Garrett's, with Marnie's parents. And then a SAMCRO Friday bash in her honor. The Sons didn't know the date she'd tried to kill herself, so they had no idea that her birthday could be a problem. When she'd found out Gemma and Tara were planning to turn this Friday into a birthday party, she didn't fight it. She didn't want to have to explain why, so she said she'd be okay.

At her best, Frank wasn't great as the center of attention. He needed to be at her side. He'd have preferred to be there all day—he'd planned to stay with her last night, but he'd screwed the shit out of that. And now she was putting him off until late afternoon. Fuck.

There was one reason spending some time apart today was a good thing. He needed to do some shopping. He picked up a small leather box from his dresser and opened the lid on its hinge. After a second, he snapped it closed and tossed it into the back of his sock drawer.

-oOo-

The little party at Garrett's was low key, and Oliver was the real center of attention, which was obviously fine with Frank. She seemed okay. She was affectionate and lighthearted with him, as if the night before hadn't happened. It seemed like she was enjoying herself.

She doted on Oliver, as usual. She'd bought him a shit ton of presents—she was right; there was no way they'd have managed it on the Dyna. Clothes and a toddler drum kit, edible finger paints, and who knew what else. His grandparents went even more overboard. The kid was all but buried in a mountain of toys, and he was playing with the wrapping paper.

Garrett and Marnie gave Frank a stack of vintage LPs, including a first pressing of The Stooges' debut album. She was stoked.

The party wound down when Oliver went down for the night. It was getting late enough that they needed to get to the clubhouse, anyway, or everyone would be too drunk to remember it was her birthday, and Gemma would have a stroke.

He walked up behind her and pulled her into his arms. She relaxed into him; it did his heart some good that she really did seem to have bounced back from the night before. "We should go, baby. I want to stop at your place before we go to the clubhouse. I want to give you my gifts in private."

She turned a sardonic eye on him. "Dear God, tell me you didn't go to Victoria's Secret or something."

He laughed. "No, I know better. I went to Frederick's." Her eyes grew. "I'm joking! I just want to be alone with you. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Let's go, then."

-oOo-

He followed her to her apartment and brought his pack up with him. They sat on the futon. Before he opened the pack, though, he needed to ask her a question.

"Are we okay? After last night? You still with me?"

She searched his eyes; he made sure not to look away. Her eyes were so fucking intense. In the years he'd known her, he'd never found the right words to describe them. Blue didn't cut it. Light blue, pale blue—those made it seem like their color was washed out, when exactly the opposite was true. But they were so light they were barely blue. Like the hottest part of a blue flame. Unless she was angry or aroused. Sometimes he looked into her eyes when he was inside her, and her eyes were pure sapphire. His birthstone.

"We're okay. I just needed some time to get back to center. It scared me—the way I almost lost it scared me more than the fight. If we can just keep things as they are for a while, I'll be okay."

"Good. I'm sorry I was a dick. I freaked out a little myself."

"S'okay. Behind us." She smiled. "So, do I get the goods, or what?"

Sometimes—hell, all the time—the strength of his love for her bowled him over. He grinned and opened his bag. He pulled out a square leather box, considerably bigger than the one it had replaced. It was wrapped only in a purple ribbon. He handed it to her.

It wasn't a huge surprise what was in a box like that. She took it with a smile and pulled off the ribbon. He studied her carefully as she opened the lid. He saw joy in her eyes as she lifted the necklace out. Good.

The pendant was a sterling silver hand-wrought cage that held two stones: a natural emerald and a natural sapphire. Their birthstones. He could see that she understood what it represented. The look she gave him allayed almost all his fears for them. He was glad he'd changed his mind.

"Jesus, it's perfect, Juice. I love it." She handed him the necklace and turned her back to him, lifting her hair. He put it around her and closed the clasp, leaning in to kiss the nape of her neck. Then she turned around and climbed into his lap. "Thank you. I love you. Always." She took off her glasses and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth.

Groaning, he clutched her tight, pressing her to his erection. He felt her hands moving under his shirt, scratching his belly, sliding into his jeans. "Jesus, baby. You make me so fucking hot." He rolled forward, stretching over her and pulling her outside leg up around his hip. She was wearing a mini-skirt, and her legs were bare. For once, her clothes weren't in his fucking way. She crossed her ankles, still in their Docs, on his back.

"Come on, come on," she panted, and he opened his pants and pulled himself out. As he pushed her underwear aside and shoved into her, she arched, gasping, "_Yes!_" and surging against him. Fuck, she was wild. He let himself go, pounding into her as hard and fast as he could. She kept up with him. Her hands were under his shirt, on his bare back, scratching. She slid them into his pants and clutched his ass.

As always, he could tell when she was at the edge. He knew the feel of it on his cock, he knew the sound of it, he knew the look of it in her eyes. He changed tempo and shifted slightly, going deeper, at an angle, and she went off like a firecracker, her short nails digging into his ass. He held himself back until she was coming down and then let go with a shout, grabbing her ass and slamming fiercely into her.

He relaxed a bit, holding most of his weight in his legs, but nuzzling his face in the crook of her neck.

"Fuck, you're good at that," she breathed.

He laughed. "I wasn't done giving you presents."

"I can see that. That was a pretty great present." She tightened her arms around him.

"No—I mean I have another gift in my pack for you." He started to push off her, but she held him in place.

"Stay for a minute. Then cough up the loot."

"We're late. Everybody will be wasted." It was a hollow protest. He'd be perfectly happy not to move the rest of the night.

"Mmm. So much the better. Stay put."

"Gemma will be on a tear."

"That's your problem, not mine. I've had my cake. I ate it, too."

He settled in and relaxed for a few minutes. Eventually, when his cock had softened to the point that it had all but slipped out of her on its own, he sat back, pressing a kiss to her Gordian knot tat just above her clit. He tucked himself away and pulled her to sit with him.

He took a much larger package, this one wrapped in solid purple paper, out of his pack and handed it to her.

She tore the paper off and then froze, staring at what was in her hands.

A friend of the club was a leatherworker. He'd done a lot of work for the club, and for individual Sons. His wife made jewelry. He'd made what Frank was holding now; his wife had made the pendant, and she'd done it to spec for him in a couple of hours. She'd also made what was in the box in his dresser drawer, though that had taken weeks and not hours.

What she was holding now was a large book, about 9x12, bound in leather, full of blank cream-colored vellum paper. A journal. Burned into the cover was an exact, though larger, reproduction of the tat she'd designed for him: two anarchy symbols entwined, one identical to the Sons symbol, the other made of three paintbrushes.

She was still looking at the cover, silently.

"Open it." She did.

On the first page, he'd written:

_This is the one and only time I'll ever lift the cover of this book. This is your private space, and I will never poke into it. There's just one thing I want to say._

_I'm not a writer. I've never done anything like this before. But I want to try to explain how important you are to me. I don't think I do that very well. I've spent most of my life feeling out of sync with everybody else. I don't fit. I didn't fit with my family. I don't fit that well with the Sons. _

_I fit with you. When you climb into my arms like you do, that's always the first thing I think—we fit. We're right. _

_When I'm without you, I'm lost. Really lost. I never want to be without you again. I want to be the man you deserve. You amaze me—your strength, your beauty, your grace. Your love._

_I love you. I'm true. I'm with you._

_Always._

She said nothing. She simply climbed into his arms.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Warning: **Going dark, kids. I've gone much darker in other stories, but there's violence in this chapter. Of the unpleasant kind.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 23:**

"Don't Panic," Gas Huffer

"Shit, where have you two been?" Gemma was storming toward them as they headed to the clubhouse. "I've been beating drunks away from your cake for two hours!"

Juice squeezed Frank's hand, and she squeezed back, holding on for dear life. One year ago at this minute, she was pretty sure she was passed out in her puke. Or maybe getting her stomach pumped by now. All day long she'd been thinking about where she'd been at that moment a year ago. That probably wasn't the healthiest way to spend the day, but she couldn't help it.

A SAMCRO party really wasn't high on her list of birthday wishes this year. But successfully stopping Gemma would have required sharing too much information, so Frank was determined to deal. She squeezed Juice's hand again. He'd promised to stick close to her tonight.

Juice said, "Sorry, Gem. We got held up at her brother's house." It was a pretty decent lie. Frank waited to see if it would pass muster.

Gemma gave Frank a hug and kissed her cheek. "Happy birthday, sweetheart." She got between Frank and Juice and linked arms with them both. "Okay, let's get the celebration going before there's nobody left conscious enough to enjoy it but us and Chucky."

The party was in full swing, but everybody was still on their feet. Lots of women to go around this time. The place was packed. When Frank realized that, with the exception of the cake on the bar and some balloons, this was hardly different from any other Friday night at the club, she relaxed a lot.

Gemma was not about to let her fade into the background, however. She actually got the crowd to sing her "Happy Birthday." Yeah, that was awkward as hell. And she blew out candles. Jesus. She found that she was repeatedly grabbing her new pendant, as if it were some kind of talisman. She supposed it was, in a way.

At a moment when she was feeling particularly freaked, Juice leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Baby, you doing okay?" She must have looked like she felt.

She whispered back. "I'm kinda wishing Martin hadn't found me, but yeah. I'm _super_."

He roughly turned her to face him. "Don't fucking joke, Frank. Jesus Christ. Not funny." He looked around. "Do you want to go?"

It would be rude to leave so soon, and Frank really liked these people. It was just the day that was hard. "No, I'm okay. I need some air, maybe."

"Okay, let's go outside for a minute." He led her through the crowd and out to the picnic tables.

Tig was sitting out there on the bench farthest from the door, alone, smoking. He nodded at them but otherwise ignored them. They sat on the nearest bench, asses on the table, feet on the bench. Juice put his arm around her and she snuggled in. He kissed her head. They didn't talk. She could feel herself relaxing in the shelter of his arms. Okay. That worked.

Just as she was beginning to think she was ready to go back in for round two, a car pulled into the lot. Frank recognized it at once. Apple red '56 T-bird. Top down.

"Desi? What's she doing here?" Frank got down from the bench. She was baffled—one place she felt pretty certain she'd never see Desi was T-M.

Juice gave her a squeeze. "I invited her. It's your birthday party, after all."

"But you hate her."

"Not my birthday. And I don't hate her. Not at all. Anyway, we've worked it out, I think." He turned to look behind him; Tig was walking up. Juice put his mouth to her ear. "In fact, you want to greet her the way you like to, put on a little show for Tig?"

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What?"

"Seriously. I'm good. Only if you want to." He kissed her neck.

Frank gave him a hug and headed into the lot to meet her friend.

Desi was wearing a black leather mini-skirt and a blue silk top, snug and low-cut, showing lots of inky cleavage. Black platform ankle boots. Her burgundy hair perfectly spiky. A conservative look for Desi on a Friday night. Frank walked up to her, and Desi wrapped her in her arms. "Hey sweets. Happy birthday."

Frank leaned out of the embrace a little and pulled Desi's head down. When her friend resisted and gave her a look, Frank laughed softly. "Just go with it. We're doing a show for the guy standing next to Juice. He's a pervy ass."

Desi was always game for play, so she laughed and put her all into it, enough that Frank started to get a little worried about Juice, even if this had been his suggestion. She pulled back and took Desi's hand to lead her to the clubhouse.

Juice looked okay—he was grinning, actually, when he grabbed her hand again. "Hey, Desi. How you doin'?"

"I'm good, Juice." She kissed him on the mouth. Deeply. She lingered. You ask Desi to put on a show, you get a show. Juice came out of it and immediately looked at Frank. She winked at him. That was not the kind of thing that made her jealous. That was the kind of thing she really enjoyed. Missed, in fact.

Tig was agog. Frank suspected that she'd just vigorously shuffled everything Tig thought he knew about her. He looked at Frank. He looked at Desi. Back to Frank. Then to Desi, looking her slowly up and down.

"Tig, this is my friend, Desi. Desi, Tig."

Desi smiled and held out her hand. "Tig."

Tig took it and pulled her closer. "Hey, beautiful. Great ride. You should come in to the garage some time. Give you a nice oil and lube."

Desi laughed and gently pulled her hand back. "That's sweet, Tig. But I've got all the oil and lube I need. Oh, and just to get it out there, I don't usually swing your way. Not without a friend."

Tig blinked several times, but said nothing.

She hooked arms with Frank's free one, and Desi, Frank, and Juice walked into the clubhouse. Frank resisted the urge to look back to see Tig's face. She would have liked to have seen it, but ignoring him was better.

This birthday was turning out to be okay.

-oOo-

The summer was freaking hot. Summers in the Central Valley were always obnoxiously hot—routinely over 100 degrees in the afternoon, no clouds ever for months and months. And rain? Please. There was hardly even morning dew. But this summer? Jesus. Record-breaking bullshit weather. And Jake's A/C wasn't working.

The only air conditioning in Frank's little apartment was a tiny window unit. It worked nonstop during the daylight hours and managed to keep the temperature something below instant death. Smeagol did okay; he spent all day stretched fully out on the tile floor of the bathroom. The temperature dropped thirty degrees or more every night, so sleeping was still possible. Not comfortable, necessarily, but possible.

Moods were fragile. Smeagol was crabby. Frank was crabby. Juice was crabby.

No, scratch that. Juice was pissed. His house had central air, but Frank was still not ready, even almost three months after the fight in the park, to cross that threshold. He wasn't trying so much to hide his impatience about it anymore. But she still couldn't do it.

So they were spending fewer nights together than they had been. Even though she had a new futon with a much better mattress, he'd rarely stay the night. They were fucking like bunnies, but Juice was going home alone instead of sleeping over. Frank hated it, but she couldn't get over that block. She fucking loathed his house.

She sat alone one morning at her little table, drinking an iced coffee and staring at the mostly blank canvas on her easel. Sometimes she could finish a painting in one continuous session—blank canvas to signing in a matter of hours. Those times, she started painting on impulse without really having an idea of anything she wanted to convey. She zoned out a little and ended up surprised at what was sitting on her easel. She thought of that as "channeling," and almost felt guilty for taking credit. It was as if somebody else had painted—but when she looked at the result, she could see her brain at work.

Other times, she started with an idea, often a thought or feeling that had become a clear image in her head. Those were harder, though she felt no less compelled to try. But it was like the idea she had kept standing between her and the path to it. She tended to be more hesitant, then, and she spent a lot of time fighting the urge to trash the canvas. She almost never trashed a canvas. One of the things she'd learned was that letting the painting be what it wanted to be was much more productive and satisfying than trying to make what she thought she wanted to make. She'd learned that, but it was still hard to relinquish control.

On this already-hot morning, she was drinking her iced black coffee and making faces at the canvas, trying to convince herself to let go. She was glad when her phone rang. She was getting a tension headache from all the trying to let go.

It was Juice. "Hi."

"Hey, baby. We had a cancellation this morning. If you can get Jake in here in 30, we can get your A/C working today."

She was off today. She'd planned to paint all day; Martin was making noises that it was time to get back out there. But she could feel that this was not a muse-friendly day. "Yeah? That would be great. Will you work on it?"

"No, I'm on my way out on a job—just the day, back tonight. But you'll be in good hands. If you get your little ass moving, I'll see you before I head out."

"Okay, I'm moving. Love you."

"Always, baby."

-oOo-

The guys who were heading out on the job were already at their bikes when Frank pulled into the lot. She parked in front of the bays. Juice walked over and kissed her. She climbed up. That's where she liked to be. She laid a good one on him, and the guys made their usual animal noises behind them. He laughed and set her down, taking her hand and walking toward the bikes.

"How late are you going to be?" She knew he wouldn't spend the night, but even if she didn't see him at all tonight, she wanted to know when to start worrying.

"Not sure. Shouldn't be bad, though. It's just Truckee, and the job's no big deal. I'll call when I get in."

"Okay. Stay safe."

He kissed her. "I will. You, too. Gemma or a Prospect will give you a ride, if you don't want to hang around. Just ask, okay?"

"Yep. Love you."

He smiled broadly and winked—he was obviously in a good mood today. "You and me."

She watched as they pulled out and headed toward the freeway.

She found out the repair was going to take hours. Lovely. She wasn't in the mood to sit around her hot apartment all day, so she went into the clubhouse. It was dim and quiet—weird. Empty. Kinda creepy. But it was cool. She sat in a leather chair and pulled her journal out.

Right around the time she was starting to get restless, Gemma came in. "Come on, darlin', I got some errands to run. You can help." She turned around and walked back out. Frank supposed she was meant to follow. Why not; what the hell.

She did have errands—seemed like she was doing a full restock of the clubhouse and office. They went to the office supply store and the hardware store, Gemma maneuvering her monstrous Escalade like it was a subcompact. She talked to other drivers as she drove. They couldn't hear her, of course. She just kept up a running critique of everybody else on the road. Frank found it hilarious.

They loaded up the back with her purchases. As she pulled the hatch down, Gemma said, "I got a couple more stops, but you want a burrito or something?"

She wasn't hungry—she was still rarely hungry, though she was eating better—but she was having a good time. "Sure."

"Good, there's a little place near the market. I want fajitas."

Once they'd ordered and had gotten their drinks—sangria, surprisingly, for Gemma, iced tea for Frank—Gemma held forth. Frank had been waiting, actually. She wondered if there was some big talk Gemma wanted to have. Frank didn't see her as the type who hung with women just for company. There was something on her mind.

"You know, when I first met you, I thought you'd make a good old lady. You were young and little, but there was something—in your eyes, maybe. I could tell. You're a tough little bitch."

Frank loathed—loathed—the word bitch. She knew lots of women used it to mean strong woman or whatever, but she hated it. When she used it, she meant it as an insult. So it took her a second to get over that reaction and acknowledge that Gemma had paid her a compliment of sorts. "Thanks, Gem. Most people don't really think of me as tough anymore, though."

"What, because of the pills? Fuck, darlin', far as I think, that just meant you were tired. Men don't get that. Women do. Don't you worry about that. That's not what I want to talk about, anyway. That's past. Rearview."

Frank sat back. Gemma had just said the one thing she'd never been able to convince anybody else in her life of: that she had never been truly suicidal. She'd never been trying to hurt herself out of self-loathing. She'd hated herself more in the hospital and when she was so restricted afterwards than she ever had before. She'd simply been tired. Overwhelmed beyond capacity. Cutting was never anything but a way to find focus, get control of her head before it wore down to a nub. Swallowing those pills was just trying to find some quiet. It didn't make her any less crazy, she knew, but she thought it maybe made her less fragile. She wasn't looking for a way out.

She also noticed that Gemma was talking about it with the same words Frank herself used—putting it in the past, in the rearview, and looking forward. Frank had always liked Gemma—she was a _real_ "tough bitch." She spoke her mind and didn't bother much with niceties. People made way. She was a force.

"No one else has really gotten any of that before."

Their food came. When the server left, Gemma smiled and leaned in. "You and me, sweetheart? We got some things in common."

Frank was about to ask her to elaborate when Gemma continued. "But what I want to know is, why do I look at you and Juice and think you're stalled?"

Oh fuck. Seriously? Were they like some kind of fucking club project? Had Happy asked Gemma to sub for him while he was on tour with Viv and her band? "Why does everybody care so fucking much about what's going on with me and Juice? Why won't everybody just let us figure our shit out by ourselves?"

"I don't know about everybody. I just know that I like you around. I think you're good for Juice. I think you're good in the club. You don't take shit off our boys, and I like that a whole lot. And Juice is a fucking moron more than half the time, so I think his progress needs some monitoring. So what's going on?"

Uh-uh. Nope. Gemma might be a force, but Frank was one herself. "We're right where we want to be, Gem. Let us do this our way."

She did not look pleased, chewing her fajita, but she didn't say more.

Frank took a couple of bites and then asked, "Gem, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, baby." She took a long sip of sangria.

"Why don't you hang at Nero's? He runs a crew of his own, right? Aren't you his old lady now?"

She'd hit a sore spot, that was clear. She hadn't meant to, but she didn't back off the question.

"That's complicated. I've been part of SAMCRO almost since the beginning. Jax's dad founded it with Piney. Clay was First 9. I know I'm not a SAMCRO old lady now, but Jax is my boy. I was always the queen. That's who I am. And Nero's crew—it's different. They're not organized like we are. They're just a gang. They're thugs. I love Nero, but his boys, they got no respect. Not for me, that's certain. And they're always biting at his heels, always some kind of challenge. No, SAMCRO is where I belong."

Frank just nodded. She knew better than to ask anything else. They chatted about light things—Abel and Thomas, dumb stuff the guys had done, until the server brought the check. "You ready to get back to it, darlin'?"

After Gemma settled the bill—she was a good tipper, Frank noticed—they headed back to the Escalade.

-oOo-

They were headed back to Charming from the big warehouse store in Galt. The back of the Escalade was packed solid, to the roof. Gemma had to use the side mirrors to see behind her. It seemed to Frank like they'd bought an apocalypse's worth of toilet paper. When she'd asked, Gemma had snorted, "You got no idea how those boys shit. Don't ask—trust me."

Frank had absolutely no intention of asking.

They were on a bare stretch of 99 when a huge old sedan pulled up alongside Gemma and started to push her over. Gemma looked over, muttered, "Fuck you, baby," and turned into the car. It swerved and sped up, but it was replaced by another that had been right up behind the first one.

The first car cut in front of them. The second pushed up alongside. Gemma slammed on the breaks, and they were almost immediately rammed—there must have been a car driving behind as well, in Gemma's blind spot. They were stopped and boxed in.

Gemma pushed the automatic door locks. "Fuck—glove box, Frank. Right now." Gemma's bag was on the floor behind her seat. She reached back just as her window blew in—someone had put the butt of a rifle through it. Before she could get hold of her pistol, she was being yanked out of the car, screaming and kicking like crazy. Then she was quiet.

Meanwhile, Frank had opened the glove box as soon as Gemma told her to, and she had a loaded .38 Special in her hands, safety off, cocked, when her door was opened. She hated guns, and it had been almost two years since she'd shot one, but she wasn't even thinking. She just let loose and pulled the trigger the moment the guy reached for her. He fell back, and she jumped out of the car and over him, her heart racing, spinning around, looking for someone else to shoot. Someone was charging her from the side. She turned and fired, but the shot went wide, and the guy hit her, driving her to the ground.

She screamed and screamed until he slapped her so hard her eyes boggled. He shoved a wad of filthy bandana in her mouth. It tasted faintly of gasoline. He was a big Latino with lots of ink. She tried to remember all the marks. Then he flipped her roughly, and she was face down in the dirt, her hands and feet being bound.

He slid his hands under her to pick her up. One hand was on her breast, the other under her hips. He started to lift, then stopped. It was blazingly hot, and Frank was dressed for maximum comfort. She was wearing a denim miniskirt and a couple of knit, camisole-style t-shirts. No bra. She was an A cup; as a harness, a bra was decidedly optional. She only ever wore one because of the piercings—so the jewelry wasn't so apparent to anyone who looked at her. But that morning she'd decided that it was too fucking hot for a bra and had gone for the layered camisoles instead.

She felt him feeling her breast, his fingers discerning the ring through her nipple. "Oh, _chica_, what's this?" He flipped her over, her arms complaining at once as she landed on the bindings. He yanked up her t-shirts and grinned. He grabbed both pieces of jewelry and pulled hard. "Nice!"

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on remembering everything she could about these guys. The cars—one was a green 70s Merc. The other—she didn't know. A Chrysler, maybe? It was silver. She hadn't seen what had rammed them. There were at least three guys, all Latino. This one was big. Not fat—broad. Big laughing skull inked on his throat. A map or something on his left—no, he was facing her, his _right_—shoulder. A cross on the back of his left hand. The one pulling on her right breast. Fuck! Where was Gemma?!

"Tony! Get over here!" She opened her eyes as she was hefted and thrown over his shoulder. Hanging over his back, she looked down at his feet. Timberlands, big grease stain on the right? Left? She was all turned around now. Left heel.

She had no idea if there was any reason at all that these details could help them. She couldn't see how. But thinking about them, trying to remember, was something she could focus on. Because the buzzing in the back of her head was like nothing she'd ever felt before. This was terror, and it was huge.

She landed hard in the trunk of the . . . green car. The Merc. She felt Gemma slightly under her, not moving.

Tony leered down at her. "Hey Nando, here's the little _puta_ that shot you. And look at this—she's a little freak!" He yanked her shirts up again, exposing her to four men. He yanked on the ring. The pain was bad, but she tried not to show it. She just kept focusing on details. Ink, hair, height, clothes. They were all Latino.

Another man walked up, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Nando. "Who the fuck is she?"

Tony said, "Beats me, but she's got a crow, so she belongs to one of Nero's new homies."

Nando said, "No way. Look at her—she's a kid. Let go of her. Cover her up. Nobody touches either of them unless Nero don't come through. We don't get what we want, she's all yours. Until then, I'll slice the dick off anyone touches either of them. Clear?"

"She ain't no kid, Nando—she's pierced and inked all to hell!"

"You arguin' with me?"

She saw the anger in Tony's eyes, but he let her go. As he pulled her shirts down, he ran his fingers down the ink on her chest. He leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry, _chica_, you and me—we're gonna party." Then he slammed down the lid, and she and Gemma were alone in the dark, boiling hot trunk.

-oOo-

It was so fucking hot. Frank was having trouble staying awake. She'd been trying to mark time, counting seconds in her head. After two hours, she couldn't keep the numbers straight anymore. They'd stopped driving a long time ago, but no one had opened the trunk. She'd tried to listen, but she just didn't care anymore. The heat and fear had sapped everything. Even the buzzing had almost stopped. She didn't even have the energy to be crazy.

Gemma had never moved or made a sound. Frank was really worried. She could feel her skin—her arm, Frank, thought—under her own hands, so she knew Gemma was sweating. So she was alive. She didn't know how old Gem was, but she was old enough to be a grandma, and she had a heart condition. They had to get out of this fucking trunk, or whatever these assholes wanted them for would be a moot fucking point.

They didn't want her. They wanted Gemma. She'd just been in the way. She thought maybe that meant bad things for her.

She'd been lying on her bound arms all this time. She'd tried to shift, and had managed to roll just enough that she had hope she wouldn't actually lose her arms if she survived this, but they were well and truly numb. She was glad, because the process of going numb had been painful as hell.

Finally, finally, the trunk opened, and Frank almost wept from the relief. It was probably 105 outside, but that was so much cooler than in this trunk the air almost felt refrigerated at first.

They were in a run-down subdivision. She and Gemma, who still had not moved, were carried into an abandoned house. It looked like a foreclosure. The walls were gutted and all the copper had been pulled. It was ten or twenty degrees hotter in the house than outside. Still better than the trunk.

They were deposited on the floor in what was probably the living room. The windows were all covered with dark blankets, nailed on all four sides. One of the men came in with water bottles. Frank wondered what they'd make her do for that water. She tried to think if there was a line she wouldn't cross to get it. She wasn't sure.

Tony, apparently her own personal tormentor, squatted down next to her. He spoke sweetly, as if he were trying to pick her up. "Now, _chica_, I've got this ice-cold water (Frank whimpered) here. You gotta promise you'll keep quiet so I can let you drink it. You promise?" That was it? Yes, yes, she promised. She nodded emphatically.

He pulled the rancid bandana out of her mouth and the first thing she did was gag alarmingly. He grabbed her by the throat and squeezed viciously. "You puke, bitch, and I'll wipe it up with this and shove it right back in your mouth. Got it?"

So much for sweet talk. She swallowed hard and got control of her gag reflex. He gave her the water. She'd remembered that she was supposed to take small sips, but fuck that. Who knew how long they'd let her drink? She drank the whole bottle in four long gulps.

One of the other guys—she didn't think she'd heard his name—was slapping Gemma, trying to wake her. He was hitting her really hard, and now Frank saw that Gemma had a big black eye already.

"Stop! Stop! She's sick! Can't you see?" Her voice was weak and hoarse.

A huge bolt across her already-sore cheek, and stars in her eyes as Tony backhanded her across the face. "I said quiet, bitch! You want the gag again?"

She shook her head, but she tried again, much more softly. "She's sick"—Tony raised his hand again, and she flinched, but continued—"look at her chest. She has a heart condition. If you need her alive, you need to be careful."

The other guy pulled down the neckline of Gemma's top, exposing her scar from open-heart surgery.

"Fuck! What do we do?" They looked at her. She had no idea, but she made some guesses. "She needs to be cool. She needs the water. I can help her take it if you move my hands to the front."

They did, shifting Gemma's bindings, too, and they moved her over to Gemma so she could try to get some water into her. Her arms caught fire as the blood rushed back, and she bit fiercely on her upper lip to keep from screaming. When she could use her hands, she eased water into Gem's mouth. They brought another bottle, and Frank splashed some on her face. It actually worked, and she came around after several minutes. She was weak and disoriented, and she'd aged about ten years. She lay quietly in Frank's lap for a long time, breathing shallowly.

By then the men had mostly left them alone, one guy standing guard at the entrance to the room. Frank could see by the light around the covered windows that it was getting dark. That meant it would be cooler, but it was still much scarier. They'd been here for hours. Frank didn't know what they were after, or how long that would take, or whether the Sons, most of whom had been in Tahoe all day, even knew they were missing.

But she had a very good idea what would happen if these men didn't get whatever it was they wanted.

Finally Gemma stirred and struggled to sit up. In a voice so weak it was hardly a whisper, she said, "These are Nero's guys. They're in his crew."

Frank nodded; she'd figured that out. She looked inside herself for panic, for the buzzing, like bees in her blood, that came when she couldn't deal. It wasn't there. She realized she hadn't felt it since the trunk.

Gemma cleared her throat. "We're fucked, darlin'."

Frank nodded. Yeah, that was what she thought, too.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 24:  
**"Search and Destroy," The Stooges

The job was a simple protection run to Truckee, for the most part, but Jax had additional business across the Nevada border, helping Nero broker a deal between Diosa and one of the big casino hotels.

It was a great ride—the winding mountain roads, the weather getting steadily cooler as they climbed. They were covering a semi, so they didn't get much speed, but it was a beautiful day and a beautiful ride. These legit runs didn't pay like the guns or drugs, but everybody could relax a little and enjoy themselves. Moods were good all around.

While Jax and Bobby were doing their deal, Chibs, Tig, Phil, and Juice hung out in the bar. The others were enjoying the . . . amenities, drinking on the house and playing around with the women. Juice had a beer and sat at the bar. He wasn't interested in the amenities. He hadn't had hard liquor since Neela, and he damn sure wasn't interested in these women.

He sat at the bar, his back to the room, and thought about Frank. He was trying to be patient and give her all the time she needed. That was the promise he'd made to her. But he was starting to feel more than hurt that she wouldn't come to his house. And she just wouldn't. She wouldn't even try. He was getting pissed.

Her apartment was hot and cramped. She'd bought a new, much better futon—and God forbid she'd let him buy her one—but still, the only place to sit was that or the little metal chairs at her table. And they had to fold out her damn futon to have room to fuck.

But none of that really mattered. That was all a nuisance. What pissed him off is that she wouldn't try. She'd wanted to go slow, and he understood that. Totally. She said they needed to travel a different road. He agreed. But she'd pulled off at a rest stop and set up a homestead. He didn't know how to get her moving again.

As he drained his beer, Jax and Bobby came tearing into the bar. Jax yelled, "We gotta go. Now!" He turned and strode out, almost at a run. The Sons followed. As they got to their bikes, Jax came up to Juice. "Bro, hold up. My mom and Frank got caught up in some shit with Nero's crew. They snatched 'em."

"_What_?" Jesus Christ! His heart fell into his boots. "Nero's _crew_ took them? That doesn't even make sense!"

"We gotta get back. We'll know more when we get with Nero. He's meeting us at the clubhouse." To the group, he yelled. "Let's go!"

-oOo-

They rode balls to the wall back to T-M. By the time they pulled into the lot, Juice was holding on to self-control by sheer force of will, because losing it would not help Frank. She was still so shaky under stress, and he couldn't help imagining what they'd do to her if she lost it now. Or what they were doing to her regardless.

Donna. Gemma. Luann. Tara. Lilli. Viv. All horribly hurt or killed getting caught up in club shit.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. _Jesus fucking Christ_!

They parked their bikes, and Juice and Jax were first into the clubhouse. Nero was sitting at the bar with a glass of tequila. He was sitting at the bar. With a drink. While Frank and Gemma were who knew where having who knew what done to them. Juice charged him, yanking him off the stool, with every intention of killing him.

He got a couple of hard jabs in before Jax pulled him off and backed him up. "Bro, chill! This won't help them. We've got to think, work together." Juice tried to fight him off; he needed to do violence. "Juice! Fucking chill!"

He made himself calm down; Jax was right, and he knew it. But they needed to fucking move. Giving him a warning look, Jax let him go. Everybody went into the chapel.

When everyone was seated, Jax looked at Nero.

Still wiping blood from his mouth, Nero looked around the table. "It's a coup. They're looking to drain me, drive me out. My accounts, Diosa. All of it." He faced Jax head on. "They also want in on your deal with the cartel."

Jax pulled a hand down his face, over his beard. "Jesus Christ. That's crazy. We can't do that. Even if we wanted to."

"I know. And I can't hand my girls over to these _pendejos_. If they only wanted money . . . but—Jax, I touched everybody I could. I got no idea where they are. But they want a meet—you, me, and your Galindo contact—11 tonight. We're not there, or we don't have what they want, Gemma"—he looked at Juice—"and your old lady, they die hard. I'm sorry, man."

Juice stood up, and his chair slammed against the wall. "Gives me three hours. Nero, I need names, numbers, everything you got on your crew. Now."

Jax nodded and looked at Nero. "Go with him."

-oOo-

They were smart enough not to have their registered cells on them, so Juice couldn't track them by GPS. He'd tracked Frank's phone easily, its ping steady and right with Gemma's. But it was a dead end. Phil and Chibs chased it down and found it in Gemma's Escalade, pushed into a ditch off a side road on 99. But it gave him a ground zero to work from.

He found them by their cars. He hacked Galt and Lodi traffic cameras and got lucky. A green 1973 Mercury Comet hit a red light cam that afternoon, a silver 1980 Chrysler Imperial right behind it. The timing was right. The only likely destination for miles from that location was a half-built housing development that had gone belly up in the real estate crash.

He hacked a law enforcement satellite and found the cars outside one of the abandoned houses. It was 10:38pm, and they were 20 miles away. They didn't have time to plan. They just went, full out. Jax and Nero wouldn't be at the meet, so they had no fucking time to waste.

They pulled up their bikes at the entrance to the development and climbed into the van to come in closer. They got out at the end of the block and approached the house in a loose semi-circle, around front, back, and the most open side of the building. Every man was armed to the teeth. Juice checked the time: 10:59. Jesus fucking Christ.

The house looked dark, but then Juice realized that the windows had been blacked out, covered with some kind of fabric. He could see the faint glow of a lantern or something around the back windows. There was no one guarding outside. Nero figured five men in on this—half his crew. The four men still loyal were here with them, filling out the raid.

And then Frank screamed. "NO! FUCK YOU! NO!" And then nothing.

He ran forward, only to be tackled to the ground by Chibs. "Easy, brutha. They'll kill 'er for sure, we go in guns blazing. It's gotta be surprise."

Juice shook him off and stood. "Jesus! We gotta get in there!"

And they did. Nero and his men went in first, to try to get them talking, distract them. Once they were in and clear of the door, Jax, on the cell with Chibs, gave a sign, and the rest burst in. It was chaos. Gunfire, shouting, bodies charging and dropping.

Juice saw almost none of it; his vision had narrowed to a pinpoint. Frank was the only thing he cared about. He came in through the back. He found her in a bedroom, bound, gagged, and unconscious in the middle of the floor. She'd been beaten; her face was badly bruised, and her lip was split at the piercing. Her knees and elbows were deeply scraped. There was blood on her shirt—drips from her face, and a round spot over her left breast. Dropping to his knees at her side, he pulled the filthy rag out of her mouth and used his knife to slice through the ropes binding her.

He carried her out to the front and saw Jax in the front room with Gemma, who was also bound, weak but conscious. Jax cut his mother free. As Juice was about to carry Frank out, Gemma said, her voice low and rough, "Juice, wait. You want the guy with the skull on his throat. He's the only one that touched her."

Juice looked at Jax, who said, "Yeah, I got her." Jax took Frank, and Juice went hunting.

He found him in the back yard, fighting Tig hand to hand. Juice aimed and shot out his knee. The guy screamed and dropped.

Tig had dropped, too, at the gunshot. Now he stood and turned around. "What the fuck?"

"He hurt Frank. Get out of the way."

Immediately, Tig nodded. He backed off, but first he kicked the guy in his newly shattered knee. He screamed again.

Juice emptied the clip into him, but methodically, wanting to hear his screams with each shot. His other knee. His hands. His shoulders. His crotch. His stomach. His heart. That's when he stopped screaming. Last bullet between the eyes.

When he turned around, Tig and Chibs were staring at him.

"He hurt her. Where is she?"

Chibs said, "She's in the van, brutha. Go on. We'll get yer bike back."

-oOo-

V-Lin was holding her; she was still out. She looked so fucking small. Juice took her from him and cradled her carefully against his chest. Nero had Gemma, but he was bleeding badly from a wound in his leg. Once Juice was in the van, Jax sent them off to the clubhouse, with V-Lin driving. "I got Tara waiting for you," he said as he sent them on their way.

Juice had no clear idea how things had gone down, but his impression was they'd walked over those assholes. Tig, Chibs, Jax, V-Lin, and he were all standing. He didn't know about Rat, Bobby, or Phil. Nero was alive, but Juice didn't know about the rest of his loyal crew.

As for the traitors, Juice only knew about the one he'd killed.

Frank stirred and opened her eyes, immediately tense. She didn't fight, though. Juice saw her see him and work it through her head. "Juice?" Her voice was nothing but a croak.

"I have you, baby. You're okay. It's okay." She lay in his arms, staring up at him for a few more seconds, and then she struggled up and wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her tightly to him. "Oh, baby, I love you. I love you. I love you."

-oOo-

Tara gave Gemma and Frank a quick once-over and prescribed water and ice. She saw the blood on Frank's shirt and lifted it to take a look. Her left breast was bleeding at the piercing. Juice saw it, knew what it meant, and needed someone else to kill. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

"I need to see to Nero first, but I'll be back as soon as I can, Frank. Okay?" Frank, still cradled in Juice's arms and holding tightly to him, nodded. She hadn't spoken much at all yet.

As Tara was heading into the chapel to help Nero, she turned to Juice. "You can clean up her knees and elbows while I'm with Nero." Juice nodded.

When he had her cleaned up, he sat down with her in one of the leather chairs. He wasn't letting her go. Joey came over with water and a bag of frozen peas. Juice opened the water bottle and handed it to her. He held the bag of peas to her hurt face.

"Baby, I'm so sorry. God." She didn't say anything. She just snuggled in closer.

It was more than an hour before Tara called them into the chapel. She'd snagged a slug out of Nero's thigh, and now he was ensconced in one of the recliners, Gemma sitting next to him, holding her own bag of frozen vegetables to her face.

Juice carried Frank into the chapel and sat with her.

Pulling on a fresh pair of medical gloves, Tara said, "Okay, Frank. I want to check you over. You want it to be just the two of us?" Juice wanted to protest, but he kept his mouth shut. If Frank wanted him to go, he would. But she shook her head.

"Is there a reason you're not talking, Frank?" Tara put her hands on Frank's face, checking out the bruising. She checked her pupils. Frank croaked, "Hurts." Tara checked inside her throat. She looked closely at Frank's split lip.

Then she lifted Frank's top, and Frank jumped. "I need to look, Frank. At least you need some antibiotic ointment. Tara cleaned the bleeding nipple and examined it. Frank was tense; Juice knew what Tara was doing must hurt. Then she daubed ointment. "This isn't too bad. But the ring, and the bar in your lip, are going to have to come out so you can heal properly. It'll probably mean re-piercing later, if you want that, but I'm more concerned about infection. Okay?"

After a second, Frank nodded. Tara looked at Juice. "You help her get those out, okay? I'll leave that to you two." Patting Frank on the leg, she continued, "Okay. Nothing's broken. I'm sure you have a concussion, though—you were out for a while. Your throat is pretty raw inside and out, and you're dehydrated. Your knees and elbows—that's superficial, but I know they burn. The ointment will help. Keep drinking water, lots of water—but slow, okay? And Juice will need to wake you up every couple of hours tonight."

Juice knew that drill, unfortunately. He looked down at Frank. She looked up at him.

Tara sat back on her heels and considered Juice for a second. Then she turned back to Frank. "Did anything else happen, Frank?"

Everybody knew what she meant. Juice was tense, his fists clenched. If she'd been raped, he'd gut Nero for bringing those motherfuckers into any kind of contact with Frank.

But Frank shook her head. She spoke hoarsely. "I don't think so. It—it doesn't feel like it." She looked down; it was a gesture of shame or embarrassment, and it made a little piece of Juice die. "He was going to. That's the last thing I remember. His hands on me again. He—" she stopped and swallowed. "He cut off my underwear. The way he smiled at me—I screamed, and then I was in the van with Juice."

Juice was beginning to feel like he might have a heart attack. His heart was pounding. The rage in his chest was enormous. But he needed to be calm for Frank.

"I should check for signs, just to be sure. We'll need to get you some meds if something happened while you were out."

Juice remembered her scream. He tried to think how long it was from that scream until he found her, but he couldn't. Might have been seconds. Felt like hours. Her legs were bound when he got to her. But that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"Juice—you should step out."

Frank sat up in his lap. "No!" She looked at Juice. "Please don't leave me."

He hugged her close. "I won't, baby. I'm here with you if you want me." But fuck, he did not want to see this.

Tara nodded. "Okay. Can you get up on the table?" She changed her gloves and spread a clean towel out, and Frank lay down on it. Tara put Frank's feet up on the table. Juice held her hand, keeping his eyes on her face. She squeezed his fingers.

"I don't see any signs of trauma, so I think you're okay." She patted Frank's leg, and Frank sat up. "I want you to stay here for the rest of the night, so I can keep track of everyone. I'll get you a couple of Vicodin for the pain."

"No. I don't want that."

Juice saw it when Tara understood. "Okay. Aspirin?"

Frank nodded. "That's fine."

When Tara was done, Juice carried Frank back to the apartment. She could walk, but he couldn't put her down.

He didn't know if Frank realized what had happened in this room, but on this night none of that mattered. He helped her out of her filthy, sticky, bloody clothes. Then he sat her on the edge of the bed and took the jewelry from her breast and lip. She tensed hard and whimpered when he unscrewed the ball of the nipple ring. He eased it out gently.

God. He was so angry, his blood was roaring in his ears. He hadn't killed that motherfucker nearly enough.

There was a sharp knock on the door. "Juice!" It was Chibs. Juice kissed Frank's hands and stood. She grabbed him and whispered, "Please don't go."

"I'm not leaving. I'll just be a second." He stepped out and closed the door, leaving Frank some privacy. He looked at Chibs. "Whatever it is, not now."

Chibs nodded. "I know, brutha, but we gotta talk. Jax wants us at the table in an hour. Get 'er settled first, then we sit down."

Juice glared at him. Fuck the club. Just fuck it. He needed to be with Frank. But he knew they needed to debrief from tonight. He wanted to be part of that. Finally, he nodded and went back to Frank. "We're at the table in an hour, baby. I'm here with you until then, and I'll be back right after. Okay?"

She looked up at him for a long time, then she nodded.

He went into the bathroom and got the shower running, making sure the water was just right. He went out and carried her into the bathroom. She was quiet and tractable, letting him move her and undress her without complaint.

He was still dressed. He helped her into the shower, his pulse spiking when she hissed in pain as the water hit her wounds. She turned and asked, "Come in with me?"

Stripping quickly, he stepped in. While she stood, her hands clasped on her chest, he cleaned her tenderly, trying to wash the day away. When everything else was clean, he pulled her hands loose and washed her chest carefully.

Fury and pain and love were warring in his chest. He felt sick with it.

When he'd dried her and put fresh ointment on her wounds, he carried her back to the bedroom. He pulled a SAMCRO t-shirt out of the drawer where they were stocked and helped her into it. Then he got her into bed. He sat on the side of the bed, wearing only his boxers, afraid that getting in would be too intimate for her.

But she turned to him and said, "I need you to hold me. I need you to be with me."

"I'm always with you, baby. Always." He slid into bed with her, pulling her to his chest. At first she was as eerily composed as she'd been almost since she'd come to in the van. Then she started to shake. That's all—she didn't cry or make a sound, but the tremors grew and grew until the whole bed shook along with her. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he could do to help this day go away. All he could do was hold her close and love her.

"I love you, Frank. I'm with you. I'm with you."

Exhaustion finally won out, and she settled and slept. He lay staring at the ceiling, haunted, until he had to go. He got up and yanked his clothes back on. She didn't wake.

When he got back, she hadn't moved. He returned to her and pulled her into his arms. She woke then, and he talked to her, making sure she was coherent. He knew the drill for a concussion.

She slept readily after every waking through the night and morning. He didn't.

-oOo-

All of the men involved in taking Frank and Gemma were dead. Nero executed three members of his former crew, leaving Nando, his cousin, for Jax. Juice, of course, had taken one out—Tony, his name was. Nero's crew, down now to five members, including Nero, was essentially dead, as well. The four that were left agreed not to recruit and to turn their attention to Diosa and legit earning.

The Sons came through nearly unscathed. Phil was overseeing cleanup, but the location had been abandoned and remote enough that they weren't overly concerned that there'd be any heat from law.

Before he used the gavel, Jax had turned to Juice. "Bro, you came through again. My mom, Frank—alive because of you. Good work." Then he'd gotten hugged and slapped on the back by a roomful of men. Even Tig.

Years after getting his patch, Juice was finally starting to feel like his place at that table was solid.

He'd stared up at the ceiling through the night, thinking about the Sons, about Frank, about this life they were in. Something inside him had shifted last night. It started when Frank had screamed. It shifted more as he learned what she'd gone through and what she'd almost endured. It clicked into place at the table, when he'd understood his value.

The shift was a conflict resolving, an understanding of his place in this world. He would have what he wanted, and he would do whatever it took to protect what was his. When he could not, he would rain vengeance.

He was a Son.

-oOo-

He was sitting up against the wall when Frank woke on her own. She'd been sleeping with her head on his belly. She sat up and groaned hoarsely. He put his hand on her back, and she jumped.

"Hey, baby."

She lay back down, her head on his chest.

He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her head. "How you feeling?"

"A little buzzy. Fucking sore. Hungry, but my throat feels like shit." He could tell; her voice was weak and like sandpaper.

"Buzzy worries me most. Can I do something?"

"I think I'm okay. Just need to stay quiet. I don't want to go out there." She pointed at the door.

It was clear that things were hopping out there—noise carried in the clubhouse. "No. Tell you what—I'll go out and scare you up something to eat. I bet Bobby baked. He always bakes when there's a full house. I'll see if there's some juice, too, for your throat. Sound good?"

When she nodded, he got up and put some clothes on. "I'll be back quick as I can. I love you."

Bobby had baked—a lot. There were blueberry crumb muffins and banana walnut bread, and a two tall stacks of waffles. It was like having a house mother around. Juice didn't know how Bobby did it, because that guy drank himself into a stupor just about every night.

Gemma was in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Juice walked up and gently kissed her cheek. She looked like crap, her face bruised and swollen, pale and grey where it wasn't discolored. Gemma had never looked old to Juice; she did now. She looked frail.

"You any better this morning, Gem?" He asked, rubbing her back a little.

"I'm too old, baby. Too fucking old." She fixed her coffee and took a sip. "But yeah, I'm better. How's your girl?"

"She's okay, I think. Sore and freaked, but okay. Getting her some breakfast."

"Good."

As he was putting a tray together to share with Frank—a couple of muffins, a slice of banana bread, some grapes, coffee and apple juice—Gemma put her hand on his arm. "Juice—she's tough as nails, that little girl of yours. It's probably hard to see that, after what she did. But I saw it when I first met her, and I saw it in spades yesterday. She's strong. That guy that hurt her—he said some nasty shit to her, too. Really vile. And he was huge. She's so little, but she didn't fold. She's got a spine of steel in that skinny little body. You need to see that."

Despite the clench of hate in his gut at the mention of that asshole and what he'd done, Juice smiled. He knew. "I see it, Gem. I don't know if she does." He kissed her on the cheek again and took a tray back to his old lady for breakfast in bed.

-oOo-

Later that day, Tara gave Frank the all-clear to head home. Juice found some sweats that weren't _too_ ridiculously big for her. She threw her clothes from the day before away. His brothers had gotten his bike back last night, but he was worried about her balance, and her car was ready, so he was going to have to drive it. As he led Frank to the lot to take her back to her apartment, she stopped.

"What's up, baby?"

"I don't want to go to my place. It's too fucking hot. I've had my fill of hot."

He turned and started to lead her back inside. "We can stay here; no problem."

"No. I don't want to be here, either."

Now he was confused. Did she want to get a room somewhere? "What do you want, Frank? We'll go wherever you want."

"Your place."

The rush he felt was instantaneous. Grinning, he pulled her tightly to him. "Baby, you sure?"

"Yeah. You might need to give me a push at the door, and your A/C had better be on, but yeah. I need to stop and check on Smee first, though. Maybe put some actual clothes on."

He kissed her unbruised cheek. "You got it. You want to bring him with us?"

"Don't push your luck, asshole."

-oOo-

She did need a push at the door. He stepped right up behind her, his hands on her hips, and kissed her neck. "I love you, baby. Only thing in there is cool air. And you and me. I got you. I'm not letting you go." He stepped in, bringing her in with him, his body against her back.

She was quiet; he could tell that this was hard, and he questioned the sense of her doing it now, after the day and night she'd just had. Keeping a watchful eye, he stepped back and let her do what she needed to do.

She walked from room to room. It looked much as she'd last seen it. He tried to think if he'd made any change at all. No.

When she went into the bedroom—their bedroom; she'd only lived here a few months, but he still thought of it as theirs—she laughed a little and went up to the headboard. "Fuck. I forgot I even made that."

"I love it. It always reminds me we belong together."

Her studio was the worst. He hadn't opened that door since the day she'd moved out. It broke his heart to see it empty. And he saw it break hers, now, too. She sat down in the middle of the floor and put her head in her hands.

He stayed in the doorway. He'd made a promise never to come in here without her permission, and he'd never broken it. After a minute, when she didn't move, he asked. "Can I come in?"

Her shoulders twitched at the question. She lifted her head and turned to meet his eyes. She nodded, and he came in and sat next to her on the floor.

Putting his arm around her, he took her chin in his other hand and gently made her look him in the eye again. Fuck, what that asshole had done to her face. "Frank, I'm not going to apologize again. But sending you away was the worst mistake I've ever made. And you know I've made some huge mistakes. I've done things I'll have guilt about until I die. But sending you away was the worst thing. I doesn't even matter why I did it. It was wrong. It almost broke us. Fuck, it _did_ break us. But we're back now, and I think we're better. I think we got it right now."

She climbed into his lap and wrapped herself around him, as she so often did. They fit.

Her hands under his t-shirt, scratching lightly over his back, she whispered, "I want you to love me."

"Baby, your head." Sex and concussion didn't mix.

"If we go slow, I'll be okay. I want to feel you."

They'd go slow. They'd go easy. He wanted to love her in that bed. He got up from the floor and carried her into his bedroom. Their bedroom.

Careful not to hurt her, he made slow, gentle love to her. Then they slept through the afternoon, wound together in his bed. Their bed.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **Huge, heartfelt thanks to **Simone Santos** for reading everything and giving me such fabulous feedback, and especially for talking me off the ledge as I wrote this chapter.

I'm adding another author's note at the end of this chapter. To be clear: the story isn't over; I just don't want what I have to say in the note to distract from this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 25:  
**"This Woman's Work," Kate Bush

Frank stared at Carla, feeling scared and lost. She could hear the faint hum of that damn brass clock.

"You want to tell me what you're thinking, Frank?"

Frank didn't even know what she was thinking. Her brain was nothing but brick at the moment. "Nope."

"I know it's scary. It's good it's scary, really. You've come to understand that opening up to others is good thing. It's the way we deal with our stress and fears. It's been more than a year now, Frank, since you left the hospital. You've made your way. You don't need me."

She had the old sense that someone was telling her how to run her life again. She hated that shit. "I should know better than anyone what I need, right?"

"But you do know it, don't you? Think about what you overcame in the summer. You were kidnapped. Beaten. Terrorized. But you handled it. Frank, you didn't even need to call me afterwards. You just showed up to your next appointment, weeks later, and told me what happened. You leaned on your loved ones instead. You leaned on _yourself_. Our work is done."

-oOo-

Frank went back to work after her last session with Carla feeling stoned. She couldn't process what had just happened. She was petrified by the idea that the only people she had left to depend on where the people who had the power to hurt her. But there was a slender stream of elation there, too. She was clear of that whole mess. Everything that had started with Juice sending her away. Was it really behind her?

Marnie and O came in around the time Frank's shift was over. Marnie stayed up front with Garrett. Frank took O in back. He was on her lap, and she was letting him help her work the controller while she played. His kill rate wasn't great, truth be told, and he had _no_ finesse. He was a real button-masher. But he was having a blast.

"Oh noes! Get that guy! Get him! Get him! Alright, O! Way to take out a walker!" They fist-bumped. She'd taught him that one early.

He laughed delightedly and said, "More, more, more!"

Marnie came into the back room of the shop then and put her hands on her hips. "You're playing The Walking Dead with my toddler, Frank? Really?"

Frank grinned at her sister-in-law and stage-whispered to O, "It's the fuzz, O. What do we say?"

He looked at his mom and said, "Jinkies."

"Good man!" Another fist bump. To Marnie, she said, "Hey, you want your kid to be prepared for the zombie apocalypse, right? He's good with a crowbar, this one."

Marnie took her son. "Child Protective Services comes for me, I'm pointing them straight at you."

"That's okay! We have a crowbar—right, O?" He laughed like he knew what they were talking about.

"Seriously, Frank. Why not Mario or something? Or that Sesame Street game?"

Frank was feeling a little guilty, maybe, but she also enjoyed giving Marnie shit. "That Sesame Street game is what's really going to mess him up. That Elmo, man—that Muppet is a freak. You can see it in the eyes."

"No more gory games. I mean it. You're going to give him nightmares and neuroses."

" . . . Or, conversely, make it so he never fears anything. Think about it. There's a kind of genius there."

Marnie shook her head, but she was smiling. "I'll take your babysitting privileges away, if you're not careful." She turned and headed out, O on her hip, waving bye-bye.

Frank laughed and went back to killing walkers—much more efficiently.

In a few minutes, Garrett came back and sat next to her. "So, I just got yelled at. Thanks for that."

Frank paused the game. "Because of this? She yelled? Why didn't she yell at me, then? She left here fucking smiling."

"Because women are incomprehensible. I don't know. But Oliver's 17 months old. She's worried we're bad parents because of the games and comics, and the punk music, and the full-size Alien statue at the front of the store, and pretty much everything else in our life that I love."

That was the first even mildly critical thing Frank had ever heard Garrett say about his wife. Considering his general reserve, she figured it was appropriate to increase the significance of his statement to the power of 10. "Um, I don't mean to meddle, but that's a problem, right?"

He shook his head. "It's not a problem, it's a rough patch. Don't make it rougher, please."

"Garry—dude, you guys are okay, right?" Trouble in that paradise would rock everybody's world hard.

"We're okay. It's just—Oliver is starting to pay attention, you know? He's walking and talking. And Marnie's worried that we're making him weird."

"Was that ever a question? I mean, look at us. We're like a breeding farm for weird." Frank was noticing that Garrett wasn't talking about Marnie was if they were on the same side. Not completely, anyway. But seriously, what kind of family did Marnie think she was making a kid in? She might have been raised by the Cleavers, but the Duvalls were on a different channel. She'd thought Marnie was, too.

"Sissy, don't. I'm serious. I need your help. Can we stow the Aunt Rebel routine for a while?" He huffed in frustration.

_Jesus_, that hurt. Frank flipped from worried to pissed. "Not a routine, asshole. That's just me, and you fucking know it. You want me to pretend to be somebody else."

"Yes, then. For a while."

"Because I'm a bad influence." The implications of what he was asking were piling high, and Frank's head felt decentered. Her jokes about corrupting O were just that—jokes. She loved that little fucker something fierce. She would never do anything to hurt him.

And hey, that was fast. Carla dumped her and her brother dumped this on her within hours. Of course. Did they, like, synchronize their watches or something?

Garrett met her eyes. "Because Marnie wants our kid to have a shot at not being an outcast."

She turned off the console and got up, dropping the controller on the couch next to her brother. "You got it. Be seein' ya." She grabbed her bag and headed out the back.

"Sis, wait. Come on. Don't be like that."

"Like what? Like me? Fuck off."

-oOo-

She was sitting on her futon early the next morning, stewing about O. She hadn't slept. Something she'd done over the past year to work big shit out in her head was play out the discussion she'd have with Carla about it. Now that was gone.

She was listening to Kate Bush, Smeagol in her lap, when Juice came through the door with his gun drawn. The cat yowled and bolted.

He saw her, looked around, and holstered his gun. "Jesus Christ, Frank. What the fuck? You haven't answered your phone or returned a fucking message for hours! I was worried out of my mind!"

She wasn't in the mood to feel guilty about that. She shrugged and said, "Sorry."

He turned back to the door and gestured something at someone—she couldn't see. She guessed he'd brought backup to break into her apartment.

He took his kutte and holster off and sat next to her, taking her hand. "Baby, you can't do that shit. It's only a couple of months since you were _kidnapped_. Where do you think my head is going to go if I can't reach you? And you sounded so weird yesterday when you told me about Carla. I was freaking _out._"

She got it; she just wasn't in a give-a-shit place at the moment. She shrugged again. "Sorry."

He took her chin and turned her toward him. "Okay. What's up? Kate Bush? What's going on? Is this about therapy? Did you sleep at all?" Kate Bush was her sad and lonely music, and he knew it. She didn't see a point in pretending there was nothing wrong, so she told him about Garrett and Marnie and how they didn't want her to be a bad influence on their kid.

"Aw, baby. I'm sorry. That's shitty. You know they love you, though, right? This isn't about you." He brushed loose strands of hair back from her face.

"Don't be fucking stupid. Of course it is!"

"No, it's about them—remembering what it was like not to fit in. I know you get why they don't want Oliver to feel that. Right?"

There was a lot she wasn't in the mood for. High on that list was Juice coming down on their side. She wasn't in the mood for that at all. "You do understand that your job here is to make me feel better? It's in the boyfriend contract."

"I'm going for making you feel better in the long term. You'll be lost if you blow up your relationship with your brother over this. I'm just saying—try to put yourself in their place. They're responsible for a _person_."

She glared at him. He was smiling at her. She wanted to be mad at him, but he was smiling at her—and, worse, he was making sense. She was being selfish. Eventually, she sighed. "Two things: One, don't be insightful. It freaks my shit out. Two, you can see what a shitty mom I'd make. I'm a self-absorbed asshole."

"Come on, Frank. You're not. And now you're looking for something to feel bad about."

"No, no, I feel plenty bad about this."

He shifted impatiently and looked around. "Okay, look. You need to work this out with Garrett and Marnie. But that's later. Now, I need you to fill up Smeagol's bowls and pack a bag for a couple of days. I need to get you to the clubhouse. We're on lockdown. That's why I've been trying to reach you."

"Shit." She started to ask what was going on, but she knew he wouldn't give her much of an answer. Not until after, if at all. So she got up and did what he said. She hadn't experienced a full-fledged lockdown, but she knew what it meant. Something big, something dangerous.

-oOo-

The clubhouse was packed. In addition to every man, woman, and child Frank had ever seen there before, there were a bunch of other men, most in unfamiliar kuttes. There was a fucking mountain of weapons on the pool table. Sons were strapping themselves into Kevlar vests.

Frank turned back to Juice. She couldn't speak. This was—this was bigger, scarier, than she'd ever imagined. What a bad fucking time to lose Carla. Like some giant cosmic joke just for her.

He put his hands around her face and kissed her. "It's okay, baby. You'll be safe here."

That was so _not_ what she was thinking about. "What are you going into?"

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. We're good. I need to get ready, though. I'll find you before we go." He kissed her again and headed over to the mountain of weapons. Frank stood there, trying to stay calm and figure out what she should do.

She saw Tara sitting with her boys, so she went over there. Both boys were sleeping, despite the chaos in the clubhouse. It was early. Thomas was snuggled on her shoulder, Abel sleeping with his head in her lap. Frank sat down next to her. Tara looked fidgety.

"Hey, Tara. I can take Thomas, if it would help."

"That would be great. Actually, would you mind if I flipped Abel over to your lap, too? I need to try to talk to Jax."

"Sure." She took Thomas and set him on her lap. He fussed a bit before settling his head on Frank's smaller, bonier shoulder, and Tara laid Abel's head on her other thigh. Frank's heart and head calmed down immediately at the touch of these sweet, sleeping boys. She felt like she could wait out the whole lockdown just like this.

"Thank you, Frank. I'll be right back."

"No rush, really. It's like being wrapped in love over here."

Tara laughed and headed off.

-oOo-

Juice came to find her before the men left. By then, the boys were awake and playing with Happy and Viv's enormous German Shepherd puppy. Frank had been helping Gemma get things organized. She found it fascinating to watch Gemma order the Crow Eaters around. There was a business-like rhythm in the clubhouse. Everybody knew what they were supposed to be doing. Except Frank, anyway. She was happier hanging with the kiddos, but they were busy right now getting doused in puppy slobber.

Juice came up and pulled her close. He was wearing a vest now, too. Man, that scared her. She didn't know why. She was fully aware that gunfire was part of his normal life, but the vest made it real, somehow. She didn't think he wore one all the time, so this must be more dangerous.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight. "You better come back in one piece, asshole."

He laughed and turned her face up. "When did 'asshole' become your name for me? Gotta tell ya, I liked 'doofus' better."

She shrugged. "Call 'em like I see 'em, asshole. Back in one piece. I mean it."

He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around him. "Baby, we're finally right, you and me. You think I'm gonna fuck that up now? I'll be back, and then you can show me how glad you are." He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Perv." She bit his earlobe.

"Totally." Juice turned his head as Jax called everybody together. When he turned back, he was serious. "Hey—I love you. You stay in the clubhouse, okay? Stay safe. I'll be back. I promise. It's you and me, right?"

She had a boulder in her throat. It felt like he was making a promise he had no idea he could keep. But she nodded and whispered, "Always." He put a hand on the back of her head and kissed her until she was breathless. Then he put her down and walked away.

-oOo-

Once the men were gone, the clubhouse settled down a lot. Women gossiped and tended to children. Children played and ran around. There were young women cleaning up around people and keeping food and drink available. It was a pretty smooth operation.

She spent some time helping Gemma figure out sleeping arrangements and make sure pillows, blankets, and bedrolls were available. The only people who got remotely private accommodations in a lockdown, she learned, were Sons with old ladies.

She looked over at one point in the late morning and saw Tara and Viv talking. Viv looked upset. Frank didn't know her very well at all. She and Happy had left for months shortly after Frank's return to the Sons life. They'd gotten back a couple of weeks after Gemma and Frank's ordeal—in fact, Happy had paid a visit to her apartment to check up on her after he'd heard about it. He'd taken her chin in his hand and examined her healing but still discolored face closely, and then he'd actually given her a hug. An unspeakably awkward, stiff hug. But it was sweet. She'd figured out he was like a bizarre sort of surrogate dad or something.

Viv, though—Frank felt shy and intimidated around Viv. She didn't know why. She seemed perfectly nice. Maybe because Frank knew about what Viv had gone through before she'd ever even met her. That was some personal shit to know about a stranger. But for whatever reason, Frank tended to find someplace else to be when Viv was around.

Around midday, when Tara and Frank were playing Legos with Abel and Thomas, there was some kind of commotion in the kitchen—yelling and crashing. Happy's German Shepherd—whose name, hilariously, was Tigger—tore in that direction, barking and growling.

Tara stood up. "Oh, shit. Frank, stay with the boys, please, and watch out, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Frank was curious, but she wasn't a gawker, so she hadn't had any intention of moving, anyway. The boys had been distracted by the noise, of course, but she got them focused back on the Legos.

Once things calmed down, Tara walked back with Viv, whose face and hands were bleeding. Tigger was right on her heels. Frank immediately knew exactly what happened. Fucking Crow Eaters. Jesus Christ. Was it like an old lady hazing ritual or something—you weren't fully in until your guy had wet his dick in some skank?

She saw that Tara was leading Viv over to the couch in front of which Frank was sitting with the boys. Frank stood and took a kid in each hand. "Come on, fellas, let's do some exploring." She took the kids away from the bleeding woman. As they passed each other, she met Viv's eyes. Frank smiled, sending an _"I get it"_ vibe. Viv nodded.

-oOo-

After the excitement of Viv's hardcore Crow Eater beatdown, things settled down again. As the afternoon got later without word, though, the atmosphere was getting grim. Frank felt it herself, that was certain.

She was curled up in a chair, writing in her journal, when she saw Bobby and Gemma coming up to her. Together. She knew it was bad. Somehow, she just knew.

Gemma held out her hand. "Come on, baby. Come with me. We need to get you to the hospital."

-oOo-

* * *

**A/N, Part Deux (Warning: something of a rant): **

I had an anonymous review from a reader asking why I felt it necessary to include some dimension of sexual violence in my stories. And it's true; all of my main OFCs have dealt with it. Since I can't respond directly to an anonymous review, I thought I'd do so here. Besides, maybe some other readers have wondered the same thing.

My answer is pretty straightforward: sexual violence isn't about sex, it's about power. In the SOA world, which is certainly sexist if not downright misogynistic, men assert power/primacy over women habitually, and even our heroes see most women as their bodies first. Add hostility and aggression into that mix, and sexual violence is an extremely likely result.

As I've said before, I rarely have any long-standing plan to take my characters in a particular direction. They lead me. But once we get to a certain place—an abduction by a group of angry men, for instance—I ask, "what happens now?" In this story, we've just had five angry men, with bound women at their feet. They are all predators; logically, at least one of them would exhibit that sexually.

I also want to say this: I write a lot of angst, and my characters tend to go through some serious shit. I get a fair number of critical reviews, some of them (like the one to which I'm referring above) not worded in a very friendly manner. To understate. They all criticize the content, not the craft, of my stories. And almost all of them come in the form of anonymous guest reviews.

It's one thing to forget to log on before you post a review; we all do that from time to time. And if you'd rather make a critical comment privately and send a PM instead of posting a review, I'm okay with that. I've had a couple of interesting discussions with readers who've chosen that route.

If you are a reader who has chosen not to sign up with FF, I get that. I used to be one of you. But you still have the option to name yourself when you post a review. You need not be merely "Guest."

But if you are intentionally logging out and posting anonymously so you can say something unkind about me or my characters without direct response from me, without taking responsibility for your words—you suck. You are a coward. And I really wish you'd stop reading my stories.

I value feedback very much. I do not fear criticism. But I have no patience for those without the courage to claim their words. And, yes, I delete those reviews.

To the rest of you, commenters and silent readers alike: you rock, and I thank you.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: **Posting earlier than usual, because I'm going out tonight. :)

The events of this chapter and CH25 were first introduced in my story Phoenix. This is a super-short chapter, the reasons for which should become clear by the end.

…And there's another A/N at the end, a response to a _not_-anonymous guest review I got in response to my rant on the last chapter. Did you follow that?

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. Anything exclusive to the AU is mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER 26:**

"Seven Nation Army," The White Stripes

Jax and Bobby had been trying to get the Sons out of business with the cartel for months. They had an elaborate plan worked out, and it was set to be implemented when Henry Lin flipped and made a deal with the Lobos instead. Damon Pope had been working a deal with the Lobos, too, through the Niners. Now, instead of getting clear of the cartel and the drug business, the Sons were in the middle of all out war, Galindos, Mayans and Sons facing off against Lobos, Niners, and the Asians.

A meet was going down with the major players on the other side: Pope, Lin, and Ramon Cruz, head of the Lobo Sonora cartel. They needed to find out the details. Jax went out with Hap, Tig, and Chibs and came back late that evening with intel—and with Romeo Parada, as well as Alvarez and his Mayans. While the rest of the men amassed and assembled weapons, Jax, Romeo, and Marcus pulled Juice into the office and explained what they needed.

Within an hour, Juice delivered, and all the men crowded into the chapel to be briefed on the plan. Romeo led the meeting. He opened, "Meet's noon tomorrow, old farmstead near Vacaville." At his signal, Juice opened a laptop at each end of the table, then from a third unit at his seat, he manipulated the satellite maps on the screens. He'd created animations to show how the different waves of men would come in—first the low profile guys, including Hap, Tig, Chibs, and Rat, to take out the guards in the heavily wooded perimeter. Then, after full engagement, the rest of the men would ride in from the front and back. Juice would be part of the second wave.

As Juice worked the maps, Romeo explained, "Heavy woods, but they'll be patrolled, and it'll be daylight. We need quiet. We gotta pick them off the edges, come in through the back door. No guns until both sides are fully engaged. This is guerilla warfare, boys, not a bar fight. You understand? You need to be sneaky and steady, come on them unawares. And no guns until we're made."

When the strategy was laid out, refined, and understood, the men headed out to prepare, and the Sons got the lockdown going. As Juice walked out to try Frank again, Romeo stopped him. "That was beautiful work, Juice. I'm impressed." He patted Juice on the back and walked away.

If Juice hadn't been so worried about Frank, he might have been more stunned by that exchange. But his thoughts were on his old lady. He'd been trying to reach her since before he'd been called back to set up the maps, but she hadn't picked up or returned his calls. It was late, but they always talked late on those nights they weren't together.

He hadn't talked to her since early afternoon, when she called to tell him that Carla had ended her therapy. She'd sounded low and stressed out then. He was getting worried. He thought about calling Garrett, but he knew Garrett would immediately go looking, and if there wasn't a problem, Frank would be furious.

But he was getting really fucking worried. Jesus, she'd been kidnapped once already, and now the cartel bullshit was hotter than ever. He had to find her. He was on his way out the door when Chibs stopped him. "Juicy, where ya goin'?"

"Gotta get Frank. She's not picking up. I don't know if she's okay."

Chibs headed toward the door as well. "Alright, then, brutha, let's find yer lass. No one on their own this night."

She was okay—she was sulking. His first thought was anger. He'd been out of his mind with worry, and she was just sitting there, ignoring her phone. Jesus Christ. He turned back to Chibs, standing in the hall behind him, and gave him the all-clear sign. Chibs nodded, a wry smile on his face, and indicated he'd wait at the bikes for them.

She'd had some drama with Garrett and Marnie. She was, in fact, really upset, and in addition to being mad at her for giving him an ulcer, he was mad at Garrett and Marnie, too, for being assholes and not realizing how lucky their kid was to have Frank—just as she was—for an aunt. But they didn't have time for the family drama, so he got her moving and got her to the clubhouse.

-oOo-

The first wave was made before it worked all the way through the woods, but the second wave was ready and tore onto the scene, guns blazing. Juice was part of the group coming in from the back; they hooked up with the men coming out of the woods. They came up alongside a derelict old barn and used it for cover. Jax peered around the front corner and looked back to indicate how many enemies and where, and that there was good cover inside the barn.

Quickly, in single file, they came around the corner, firing their AKs. As Juice cleared the corner, he saw Hap and Tig coming from the opposite side, Mayans in line behind them. Just as Hap cleared the barn door, he took a hit to the chest and flew backwards into the barn. _Fuck!_

A Niner was running up on them, taking aim at Jax. Juice raise his AK and blew his head off. Then he cleared the barn door and ducked inside. He saw Hap roll to the side and struggle to his feet. Thank God for the vests.

The cover was good in here, with lots of places to get protected shots off from. Juice looked around and did a quick Sons head count. He saw everybody except Rat, V-Lin, and Tig.

Hap was gesturing wildly, trying to yell, but not getting any volume. And then, suddenly, he was walking out of the barn, blasting his AK.

Jax yelled, "Fuck! Cover him! Go now!" and all the Sons were running out of the barn, into the fray, trying to pull fire from Happy, who was walking through the scene like fucking Rambo.

Juice caught someone coming up on his right, he turned and fired, taking down a Lobo.

And then he was looking at the sky, his left arm screaming like it was on fire, his throat and chest completely numb, a weird hot wetness bathing his face in a pulsing stream. He heard V-Lin yell, "Fuck! Dude! Hold on! Hold on!"

And then it was dark.

-oOo-

* * *

**A/N: **This is a response to a review from **Spy Glass** on the point of my note from CH 25. I hope you will indulge this public response. Because Spy Glass does not have a ff profile, I have no other options for communicating. I'm going to wrap up the discussion with this note, though, because I don't want this distracting from the story, and I fear that it is.

And that's my first point. Spy Glass asserted that my note was hypocritical because I delete the reviews about which I was ranting, and thus readers of my note have only my word to go on. (BTW: I approved Spy Glass's review.)

Here's why I disagree, with all due respect: When a guest review is posted, anonymously or with a screen name, it comes directly _to me_. It is correspondence _to me_, and to me alone. It comes to my inbox, and I don't know what I'm reading until I'm reading it. In the case of truly anonymous reviews, from "Guest," I have no idea who made it or whether they've made others.

Until I moderate it, the guest review is, in effect, a private communication. But, because the reviewer does not have a profile on ff, I have absolutely no way of responding privately. If I have a response, I _must_ make it public. If I had the option to reply privately, that is the option I would choose.

In that situation, when I feel it's important to respond, I do so in as general a way as possible. The only person who could possibly know to whom I am referring is the person who wrote the review. I don't quote, either. That person remains completely anonymous.

Moreover, while a reviewer who has said unkind things gets to remain anonymous, I do not. Were I to approve such a review, anyone who read it would know to whom it was directed but not from whom it came. I am at a complete disadvantage. Vulnerable, when they are impervious.

It's the anonymity that, to me, nullifies that person's "right" to say what she (or he) wants. The internet is already an extremely uncivil place, and that's largely a consequence of anonymity. But here on ff, writers have some control over how much incivility we have to withstand—or at least how much of it we have to share.

Which brings me to my next point. Actually, guest reviewers don't have the right to say what they want. This isn't a free speech thing—the right to free speech only applies to what the _government_ can or cannot prevent (in the US, anyway). Here on ff, reviewers who are not registered with the site have given up their "right" to say what they want.

Reviews by members are not subject to moderation. A writer might report a review for being abusive, but that review stands until the site administrators themselves determine whether it is, in fact, abuse (simply critical reviews don't count). If a review is found to be abusive, there are consequences for that reviewer.

However, non-members, who have the ability to be anonymous and therefore beyond reprisals, forego the privilege of the un-moderated review. Instead, writers have the right to judge the anonymous review before it appears on their stories. I choose to exercise that right. For the reasons I have explained.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: **Well, that was fun. Now, back to the story.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 27:  
**"Lovesong," The Cure

Gemma held her hand as they went into the hospital. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and she led Frank directly to a waiting room, where Chibs and Jax were sitting. Both stood when the women entered the room. Gemma went straight to Jax and hugged him.

Frank held back a little. Chibs started to come up to her, but she took one more step back. She didn't think she could hold it together if anyone hugged her. He nodded and gave her a wink. She didn't know if there was any kind of meaning in that.

Gemma asked, "What do we know?"

Still holding his mother's hand, Jax came up and took Frank's, too, and led them to sit in a bank of chairs against the far wall. Frank's heart was like a hummingbird's in her chest. She wondered how long it would go like that before it just gave out. "He's dead, right? Or dying? Where is he?"

"We don't know yet, darlin'. They took him to surgery, and we haven't heard anything yet. He took two bullets. One in the arm." He squeezed her hand and looked hard at her. "And one in the neck. He lost a lot of blood, but we don't know anything. So just hang on, okay? Stay strong." She nodded.

Gemma got Jax's attention. "Bobby said Tig was hurt bad."

"Yeah. Took one in the lung, I think. Almost point blank. But we haven't heard more yet from him, either. Rat took two, shoulder and knee. Rat's going to be okay, but his leg is really fucked up, and he might not ride again. Tig and Juice are still in surgery, and we're just waiting." He looked at Chibs and stood up. "We can't wait any longer, though. Mom, I'm going to need you to keep us posted."

Gemma stood up, too. "Of course, baby. Go do what you need to do. Frank and I will hold things down here."

Frank felt like she was barely holding herself down, but she nodded. Jax hugged his mother again and kissed Frank's head. Chibs hugged Gemma, too. Then he squatted in front of Frank. "Chin up, lass, yeah? He's gonna be okay." He kissed her cheek and headed out with Jax.

Frank sat there and struggled to control the tears that wanted to come. She didn't fear tears the way she once had. She didn't see them as weakness anymore, and she knew they could help her get clear of big emotions. But these felt dangerous. If she let these loose, they might never stop. So she fought them back and sat where she was until she was fairly certain she'd won.

Gemma sat down next to her and took her hand. "How you holding up, sweetheart?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or think, or feel."

"You feel what you need to feel. You think about your man. You do what needs to be done. You stay strong. This is part of the life, darlin'. No getting around it. You remember that you're not alone and you stay strong. You know that's true, right?"

She didn't know what Gemma meant, so she just looked at her without responding.

"You're never alone, darlin'. This is a family. It's fucked up as hell, but it's a family. You are not alone. No matter what happens. Remember it." Gemma brushed a loose lock of hair from Frank's face and tucked it behind her ear.

_No matter what happens_. Now Frank cried. Gemma held her, and she cried.

-oOo-

It was a couple of hours before she had word about Juice. But it was good word—they expected him to pull through completely. He'd lost a lot of blood, but they'd repaired the damage from the bullets, and he was going to be okay. For a moment, Frank truly thought the rush of relief was going to knock her unconscious.

While they were waiting for Juice to be taken to a room, where Frank could finally see him, they got word about Tig. One of his lungs had been badly damaged. He was in critical condition, but they were hopeful that he, too, would recover.

Finally, Frank could see him. Gemma went with her, holding her hand. He was asleep—they'd told her he would probably be sleeping, still groggy from the anesthesia and weak from blood loss and trauma. Jesus, he was so pale. And there was still some blood on his face and head. His neck was wrapped in a big white bandage, as was his left arm.

He was still getting transfusions; a plastic packet was hanging from a pole, a tube full of red liquid running into his arm. Even knowing he was going to be okay, Frank was scared. She remembered Garrett lying in a bed like this after being shot. Somehow, this felt scarier. Maybe because Juice had gone into it willingly. Maybe because she knew how likely it was he'd lie in a bed like this again in their life.

She turned to look at Gemma, but she was gone. Frank was alone with her man. She loved him so fucking much. She pulled a chair up close to his bed. She sat and picked up his hand. His hands dwarfed hers; they could never hold hands with laced fingers for very long, because the stretch as his fingers spread hers got uncomfortable for her. Instead, when they held hands, he wrapped his around hers. Now, she took his cool hand in both of hers and held it to her face.

"I love you. You stay put. You stay with me."

He stirred, and his eyes fought to be open. He saw her and smiled. Even now, that smile was electric. "Hey, baby." His voice was low and rough, but she could hear him.

She kissed his hand. "Hey there. How's it going?"

"Mmm. Okay right now. Good drugs, I guess." He wiggled his eyebrows a little. "Told you I'd be back." His eyes closed. He was barely conscious and apparently well stoned.

"In one piece was the deal. You reneged."

"No way. I didn't lose any parts. They're all here, and they all work, right? _All _of them."

She laughed. "Perv. Getting ahead of yourself, I think. You should sleep."

"Mmm. Yeah. Kiss me first, though."

She stood so she could kiss him on the lips. He lifted his good arm and put his hand on her head as he deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She pulled back.

"Okay, that's enough. You need to rest. And you probably shouldn't be talking so much."

He sighed deeply, and she could see him giving himself back over to sleep. "I love you, baby. Stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere. Ever. I'm with you." She kissed his forehead and sat back down to hold his hand and watch him sleep.

-oOo-

While Juice was sleeping, Frank called Garrett to tell him what happened. She and her brother had shit to work out, but Garrett and Juice were close, and she wanted to let him know. Garrett was weird and abrupt on the phone, though, and he didn't even show up until the next day.

Juice was sleeping. He was weak and heavily medicated, and he was sleeping about twenty hours a day so far. Sons had been cycling through most of the night and day, but now it was quiet. Frank was sitting in the same chair, sketching in her journal. She was sketching Juice, actually. She wasn't really into life drawing, but she could do it well enough, and she somehow felt compelled to sketch him now.

The door opened and she turned to see her brother. He looked like shit, drawn and rumpled. "Hey, sissy."

"Hey." She spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb Juice's rest. "Come on in." She nodded at the other chair in the room.

Garrett shook his head. "No—can you come out here? I need to talk to you."

She looked at Juice. She'd told him she'd stay with him, and she hadn't yet left while he was sleeping; she didn't want him to wake up alone. She turned back to Garrett. "I can't leave him." Juice stirred. Shit. She wished her brother would just sit the fuck down and be here for his friend. She got up and walked to the door, intending to drag Garrett in bodily.

"Sis, please. It's important. There are chairs right across the hall. We can sit there."

She sighed and went with him, turning back to make sure Juice was really asleep.

As soon as they sat, she turned to face him. "What, Garry. What can't wait?"

Garrett took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Marnie took Oliver to her parents' house."

Frank didn't catch the import at first; Marnie's parents saw Oliver all the time. "So?"

"Last night. With suitcases."

Oh, holy shit. "What the hell, Garry? Why? What happened?"

In reply, he looked across the hall at the door to Juice's room.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. That stupid twat."

"Hey, careful. That's my wife. She's freaked. I told you; she's worried about the life we're making for Oliver."

"That's bullshit! She can't just fucking take him!"

"She can, Frank." His voice broke, and he stopped and cleared his throat. "Look. I need you to hear what I have to say. It's all just too much for her. She's thinking about Oliver. There's a kind of life she wants him to have, and there's too much in the way of that. This has been coming on for a while. It's the shop and the games and the punk and all that, but that's just a little part. The big stuff is—" He stopped and put his face in his hands for a minute, his glasses still dangling in his fingers.

Frank was getting the picture now. "It's me." When Garret turned to her, she saw she was right.

"Sissy, I love you so much. You know I do. I love Juice, too. He's the best friend I've ever had. But Marnie is my wife. She's the mother of my _son_. And this is what Marnie sees. Juice getting shot. You fighting in the middle of the street and getting arrested. Jesus, Frank, you got _kidnapped_. When you came to the house after that, your face—" He stopped and took a couple of deep breaths. "She sees that in Oliver's life, and she can't take it. She wants something better for him. She's making me choose. I have to choose my family. I have to choose my son."

There was a time when _she_ had been his family. When they were everything to each other. "Garry, no. No, no, no, no. No way. You're not saying this. No way. Please." She fought these tears off. These she hated. She was _not_ crying in front of the treacherous fucker sitting next to her. The begging was bad enough.

But Garrett was crying freely now. "I'm sorry. God, Frenchie, I'm so sorry."

When Frank loved, she loved forever. But that didn't mean she couldn't protect herself. She reached into her mind, gathered up everything marked "Garrett" and locked it behind a steel door way in the back. "If you fucking _ever_ call me that again, you spineless piece of shit, I will cut your tongue out."

"Please, please understand. I don't have a choice."

"Sure you do. You've made it." She felt wooden. "We work together. We own a business. You cutting me out of that, too? You think I'll just _let_ you?"

Garrett had only looked at her once, briefly, since they sat down. He put his glasses back on now, but he still looked away. "Marnie wants to leave Charming. Get away from—from the Sons. I'll sell you my share of the shop, and we'll split the proceeds of the house sale. Unless you want to live there."

Not fucking likely. "Buying you out is a lot of money. What if I don't want to?"

"Frank, please. I know you can afford it. And the shop is making money. It's a good investment."

She nodded, thinking. "You both know a lot about the Sons. You understand that they _will_ kill you if you ever say anything or _even threaten_ to say anything that you know?"

Garrett swallowed and nodded, looking at her chin. "Frank, I'd never—"

She cut him off. "Understand this, too: I won't get in their way." Now he met her eyes. She stood. "Draw up whatever papers you need for the shop. Just buy me out of the house. I don't want to have to deal with you while it's on the market. Set your price." She walked across the hall to Juice's room without looking at her brother again.

-oOo-

Juice was still sleeping when she got back into his room. She leaned against the wall, but her legs wouldn't hold her up any longer, so she slid down to the floor. The buzzing was loud, and the bees in her blood were angry. She wrapped her arms around her legs and squeezed, fighting for control. The urge to tear at herself was intense.

She didn't know how long she sat on the floor like that, but she hadn't made any progress. All she could do was stave it off, but it wanted to come and wouldn't relent. She was terrified that something was going to happen here, on the floor of Juice's room. In the hospital.

Then she heard Juice. "Baby? Baby, why are you on the floor?"

He got through. The buzzing receded, and she looked up. He was lying in a hospital bed, pale and weak, looking at her with love and concern. For her. He actually tried to sit up, as if he intended to come to her.

And then she was okay. Sad. Devastated. But in control. She stood and went to sit on the side of the bed. He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it hard. "Some stuff is going down, but we can talk about it later. I'm okay now. I'm okay."

"You're not okay, baby. I can see. You can talk to me. I'm feeling pretty good."

She smiled at him. God. She wasn't alone. She had a family. She had love. No matter what. "That's the morphine, asshole. I'll tell you, but when you can remember it. Right now, I just want to be with you."

"Always, baby. Always and always. Okay, get up here with me. We'll watch some bad TV."

She navigated the tubes and wires and settled in on his good side, her head on his strong chest, his heart beating steadily. A nurse came in later on to check his vitals. She rolled her eyes, but she didn't make Frank move.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: **Just a little heads up. I've drafted the complete story; Chapter 30 will end it. Almost there.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 28:  
**"I Love You," Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers

"Okay. You ready for this?" Frank sat down on the bed next to him and set her laptop on her lap.

"Yeah. Hit me." Juice scooted up to a fully seated position, with his back against the headboard. His left arm was in a sling, and he had what promised to be a doozy of a scar all across the left side of his throat and neck. He'd been home for a couple of days and wasn't confined to bed, but he was still anemic and having trouble getting his energy back. He didn't really mind, actually, especially now that he was out of the hospital and at home. Frank was staying with him, and he was enjoying her coddling.

Smeagol was curled at the foot of the bed. She'd brought him over so she wouldn't have to leave Juice to tend to her cat, but she'd insisted that they were only visiting, not moving in. He was disappointed, but he decided to be glad he had her undivided attention now.

She opened her laptop and logged into a banking site. "This is the account Martin deposits the funds from my art sales to. That's all that's in there, and I haven't touched any of it. I opened it with the check he sent me way back at the beginning. She turned the Mac so he could see the balance. Low six figures. "Jesus, baby. You've made that much from your art already? That's fantastic!" He was really impressed. Proud.

She shrugged. "It's not Basquiat money, but it's pretty good. Definitely good enough for me." He had no idea who or what Basquiat was, but he got the point.

She logged out of that site and in to another. "This is the trust from my parents. This fund is how I paid for college, and my share of the shop came from here, plus other steady expenses related to assets or whatever, like my share of property taxes and upkeep on the house, that all came from here, so this is what's left. I don't touch it for anything else. I just got free access to it when I turned 25. My share of the clear profits from the shop feed back into this, since the funds to start the business came out of it."

Juice had known about this account from when he'd hacked her info, right after he met her. He hadn't hacked her since, so he was astounded now by her bottom line. He looked at the balance of this account. It had been earning well. Mid six figures. He was doing some simple addition in his head and feeling dumbfounded. He had saved almost $200,000, but his was in cash, stashed around the house and in safe deposit boxes at several banks. He'd felt pretty fucking flush, until about five minutes ago.

She logged out of that account and into another. "I've got two accounts here. This is the one I use to, like, buy things and pay my bills. My paychecks go here." She pulled up an account with a couple of grand in it. "And what I save from my paychecks goes . . . here." Just shy of $20K.

"Fuck, Frank. Fuck! You have more than half a _million_ dollars in ready funds? Why the fuck do you drive a 40-year-old car and live in a 250-square-foot studio apartment?" He knew he was yelling. He was mad, but he wasn't sure why. He was trying to sort that out.

"I like my apartment. I like my car. This money freaks me the fuck out. Why are you yelling at me?"

He paused and took a calming breath. "Sorry, baby. I don't mean to yell. I'm just—I don't know. Surprised you kept all this from me. Why didn't you tell me? Is it because of the club?"

"What does the club have to do with this? I wasn't keeping it from you. I just don't like to think about it. So I don't. Now I have to think about it, because of fucking Garrett."

Maybe it was the lingering effects of the massive blood loss, but Juice still could not get his head around the idea that Garrett, her brother, his friend, stalwart Garrett Duvall, had cut his sister out of his life. The sister he raised, after their parents were killed. It made no fucking sense at all. And Marnie! What the fuck?

He'd called Garrett while he was still in the hospital, after Frank told him what had happened. He'd been alone; she'd gone out to find him some decent food. He and Garrett had had a stilted, unpleasant conversation, the gist of which was that Garrett had made his choice. Marnie wanted a different life, and Garrett wanted his family intact. When Juice had pointed out that Frank _was_ his family, Garrett had disconnected. Juice hadn't tried again.

Of all the bad in the situation, he thought maybe the worst for Frank was losing Oliver. She loved that little boy intensely. Now, she wouldn't talk about him at all.

He wanted to beat some sense into both Garrett and Marnie. If they were still in town when he was strong enough to stand for more than five minutes, he just might.

When Frank had told him what happened, she'd entertained his questions for about 30 seconds. Now she wouldn't talk about it except to discuss the business aspects of buying Garrett out of the shop and being bought out of the house. The conversation they were having now had arisen when she'd told him she didn't need to take out a loan to buy Garrett out. He'd been shocked. Now he was more shocked.

He decided to focus on something practical. "Except for the trust fund, it looks like the rest of it is just in regular savings accounts. Is that right?"

"Yeah. Why?" She wrinkled her brow at him.

"Because that's a shitty place to put your money. You're not getting any real return on it."

"Says the guy with money literally stashed under the floorboards."

"It's not the same, Frank. Why not invest your art earnings, at least?"

"Because the whole stock market thing is just . . . skeevy. The trust is invested because my parents did that, and I don't want to have to fuck with it now. But I prefer floorboards to Wall Street, trust me. Hey—I didn't show you all that to make you my financial advisor. You asked, I'm showing you. End of scenario."

"Okay. Sorry, baby. You sure you don't want me to come with you tomorrow?" She and Garrett were meeting with lawyers to finalize both buyouts. After that meeting, Frank and Garrett's lives would be completely separate for the first time. He hated the idea of her going alone into that.

"You're still too swoony. I'll be okay. I was thinking about asking Chibs to check in on you, though. The meeting is supposed to last a while."

"I'll be good. I don't need a babysitter. I'll just lie on the couch and watch BSG or something until you get back."

"Wow, you're such a badass." She set her Mac aside and kissed him.

He groaned and sucked her tongue into his mouth, relishing the feel of her. His cock swelled hugely and got bound up in his jeans. Fuck, he wanted to be inside her again. He rumbled low in his chest and held her head tight to him, deepening their kiss even more.

"Baby, baby, baby," he murmured against her mouth.

And then she pulled back. "Uh-uh, dude. You're still out of commission. Last thing I need is to get crushed because you passed out on top of me."

He grinned. "Then you should be on top. Problem solved."

"Nope. Doc says one more week, one more week it is."

He sat back against the headboard, pouting. She laughed at him.

-oOo-

He was indeed sitting on the couch watching Battlestar Galactica, Smeagol sleeping in his lap, when Frank came back from the meeting the next day. He'd been worried about her since she'd left that morning. He'd been hoping she'd text or call to let him know how she was doing, but he hadn't heard from her.

Now, she came in through the front door and sat down next to him without a word. He picked up the remote to pause the DVD, but she said, "Don't." So they sat quietly and watched TV together for a long time.

Juice was dying to ask her how it went, how she was feeling, but he thought he should let her talk when she was ready. So he stayed quiet. She was sitting on his good side; he lifted his arm, planning to put it around her. She rocked slightly away from him. It was a subtle gesture, but he understood that she didn't want to be touched. He put his arm down.

They'd moved on to the next episode, and she still hadn't said anything. He'd begun trying out in his head things he might say to reach her. He was worried and sad for her. But she wanted quiet, so he tried to focus on the show and wait for her to be ready.

In a lull in the action on the screen, when the room got suddenly quiet, Juice heard that her breathing was changing. She was taking deep breaths and huffing them out quickly, over and over, each breath a little deeper than the one before, each one coming a little faster. He stopped all pretense of watching TV and watched her.

And then she was crying. Juice put his arm around her and pulled her close. This time, she didn't resist; instead, she curled into him, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt in her hand. She cried harder than he'd ever seen her cry before.

He held her as close as he could with one arm. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. I love you."

When she was quiet again, resting on his shoulder, he kissed her head and asked, "You want to talk about it?"

He felt her shake her head. "Nothing to say. It's done."

Even after everything, she still turned inward when she was really hurting. "Baby, don't bottle it up. Talk to me."

"Leave it, Juice. Please. It's over. It hurts. And there's nothing else to say."

He considered pushing the point. He didn't want her to pull away. He wanted to make sure she knew she wasn't alone, that Garrett leaving her didn't mean she was without family. "Okay. I'm here." It was the best he could do.

"I know. I love you."

-oOo-

Juice was at the shop with her a few weeks later, just hanging out with his old lady. He was back to 100%. He'd acquired some new scars, though. The one on his neck was, according to Frank, "epic"—more than three inches long, more than half an inch wide.

Since taking over sole ownership of the shop, Frank had hired two more people and now had a staff of five. Juice was impressed with how well she took to being the actual boss—that had really been Garrett's role before. But she'd always been part of all aspects of running the business, so she just slid in and took everything over.

On this day, Kimmie was working the floor and Frank was sitting behind the counter working out the next staffing schedule on her Mac. The store was empty of customers, as it often was in the early afternoon on a weekday, so Kimmie was occupying herself by re-alphabetizing the video games. Juice was sitting behind the counter with Frank, reading a new Spider-Man comic.

The bell jingled and Juice looked up. So did Frank. Garrett was coming in, holding Oliver.

Garrett had stayed away since the buyouts had gone through, but Juice had been keeping tabs. He knew that the house was on the market, and that the asking price was less than twice what Garrett had paid Frank for her share. She'd told him to set his price for the house and the shop and hadn't negotiated either one. He'd overpaid on the house. He'd undervalued his share of the shop. Juice had tried to tell Frank as much, but she'd shut him down before he could.

Garrett had asked her to come and claim anything she wanted from the house. She'd told him she wanted nothing.

Juice also knew that Garrett and Marnie were moving before the house had sold, and that they'd arranged for movers to pack up the house this week. He hadn't said anything to Frank. She'd made it plenty clear she didn't want to know. But Juice knew that Garrett showing up now, with Oliver, when his house was being packed up, could only mean one thing.

He looked over at Frank. She was frozen, her hand hands hovering over the keyboard. She was staring at Garrett and Oliver. She hadn't seen Oliver in weeks, since before Juice had been shot.

She stood and walked around the counter. So did Juice. As Frank approached, Oliver squirmed in his father's arms and leaned forward, both hands outstretched. He grinned and cried, "Fank! Fank!" Frank stopped, wincing as though she'd been hit. Juice sped up a little, so he could put himself between Garrett and Frank. He didn't know why; it wasn't as if he expected Garrett to attack his sister, but he felt protective, and the move was a reflex.

Garrett looked around him at his sister and said, "Hi, sissy."

From just behind Juice's shoulder, quietly, Frank asked, "Why are you here?"

"We're leaving tomorrow. I have a couple of boxes of stuff I thought you'd want from the house. Pictures and stuff. And Oliver and I wanted to say goodbye."

Oliver was still reaching emphatically for his aunt. Frank stepped around Juice and took him from his father. "Hey, hooligan. What's shaking?" He wrapped his chubby little arms around her. She kissed his cheek. She looked at her brother.

"I told you I don't want anything from that house."

Juice could see how this was tearing Garrett up, but he couldn't be bothered to care. What he saw, what he _felt_, was how it was tearing Frank up. He took another step toward Garrett, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Clearly noticing the aggression, Garrett eyed Juice for a second before looking back at Frank. "Sis, it's pictures of Mom and Dad, stuff like that. Mom's garden sketches. You should have them. It's just a couple of boxes. I'm going to leave them, and you can decide what you want to do. Will you keep hold of Oliver while I get them?"

She just stared. Oliver got hold of her pendant and pulled on it. She looked down and smiled at him, wrapping her own hand around his. Then she looked at Juice, her expression pained and conflicted.

"You should have them, baby. You might be sorry you don't one day." After a beat, she nodded.

Juice came up and kissed her forehead. He put his hand on Oliver's head. "I'll go out with him, help him bring them in, okay?" She nodded again.

In the back of Garrett's Odyssey were two large boxes. As Juice reached in for one, Garrett grabbed his arm. "Juice, man. This is killing me. I need her to know how much I love her, how sorry I am. Can you try to make her see that?"

Juice pulled away. "Dude, I got no interest in what you need. If it would help _her_, I might. But I think it would only hurt her more to remind her that even though you love her you're still hurting her like this. You are _turning your back on her_. You're walking away. You're taking Oliver from her, and you know how she loves him. So fuck you. You're fucking lucky I don't turn your face inside out, because _that_ is what I want to do. If you didn't have Oliver with you, I fucking would." He grabbed the heavier box and went back into the shop.

They put the boxes in the back room; then Garrett came up to Frank and Oliver. "I have to go, sissy. I'm so sorry." Frank didn't respond.

Looking down at her nephew, she whispered, "Hey, O—got a kiss for me?" He puckered up tight and leaned toward her; she came in to meet it, and he kissed her with a smack. She laughed softly. "Wow, boyo. You're a good kisser." He nodded energetically.

Her eyes closed, she kissed Oliver on the head, pressing her lips to his hair for a long time. He still had her necklace in his fist; she gently pried it away. "Bye, O. I love you. Cause trouble." She handed him back to his father.

Garrett was crying silently. "Goodbye, sis. I love you."

Frank said nothing. As Garrett walked out of the shop, Oliver looked over his shoulder and waved bye-bye. She smiled and waved back.

As soon as the door closed, Frank spun on her heel and strode to the back room. Juice hesitated for a couple of seconds and then followed.

He found her bent over, her hands on her knees. She was hyperventilating. He'd been afraid of this. He put his hand on her back. "Baby, I'm here. I'm here." She knocked his hand away and practically ran to the other side of the room. There, she gripped the back of a chair, still breathing as if she'd run a marathon. He went to her again; he was not letting her close herself off. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her.

"Please don't shut me out. Let me be here for you." She fought his hold, but he didn't let her go. She turned around in his embrace and pushed at him for a second. When she looked up into his face, his heart hurt. He could see her swimming in pain, fighting for control.

Then she grabbed at his belt, yanking it open. She ripped open his jeans and climbed up onto him, kissing him savagely. Caught completely off guard, it took him a beat to process what she was doing. He pulled out of the kiss and held her off when she tried to come in again. "Easy, baby. What—"

"Fuck me. Just shut up and fuck me." She loosened one arm from around his neck and slid it between them, into his jeans, grabbing his cock.

Until her hand wrapped around him, he hadn't been hard. He'd been too worried about her to be turned on. But at her touch, he grunted and swelled. "Jesus, Frank," he muttered. He pulled her glasses off, tossed them on the desk, and clutched her tight to him.

But, son of a fucking whore, she was wearing a mini and goddamn fishnet tights. Seriously, his girl had to start dressing differently if she wanted to fuck like this. She was thrusting against him wildly, chanting, "come on, come on, come on."

He groaned in frustration. "Baby, I can't get to you. Your tights. I'm not gonna strip you naked in the back room of the shop."

"Just rip 'em. I don't fucking care. I need you in me. Just _rip_ them." So he did.

He ripped them wide open at the crotch and shoved into her as hard as he could. When his pelvis hit hers, she cried out at the impact. Her nails were digging into the back of his neck. Her eyes were shut tight. She whispered, "Go. Go hard. Come on, come on."

He turned and put her up against the nearest wall and gave her what she wanted, pounding deep and fast, his fingers digging into her ass. She was feral, grunting and thrusting and clawing.

The door to the sales floor was open. He looked over and saw Kimmie peering around the door frame, looking concerned. Without stopping, he grunted, "Get out. Close the door."

She did. Then he dropped his head to Frank's shoulder, bit down, and pummeled her until she screamed. Turned on beyond belief at her ferocity, despite the wide swath of worry through his thoughts, he was right behind her, burying his own yell in her shoulder.

Panting, he leaned against her. She draped her arms over his shoulders and whispered, "Thank you."

He kissed her. He was glad she hadn't replaced the lip piercing—he liked her lips soft like this. "You okay, baby?"

She laughed softly, sadly. "No. But I will be."

-oOo-

That night, they were lying in his bed after another wild bout of sex. She was on her stomach; he was lying mostly over her. He ran his hand over her body, loving the feel of her soft skin, damp now after their exertions, and the firmness of her dancer's muscles underneath. He traced her crow, then leaned down to kiss it.

She moaned and squirmed sensually under him. "You feel good."

"So do you, baby. So do you." He brushed his nose over the crow.

"It's time for me to take Smeagol back to my apartment."

He froze. She been with him here for weeks. She'd been here to help him while he was recovering, but he'd been feeling strong for a while. He'd begun to think of her as living with him. And that she was deciding to go now, the day Garrett left—that was setting off all kinds of alarms in his head.

"Baby, don't. I want you with me."

She rolled to face him, and he put his hand around her hip. "I _am_ with you. But I won't ever live in this house again."

He'd thought she was over the bad memories. He'd thought he'd regained her trust. "I don't understand, Frank. You've been here. It's been good. _We're_ good. We're right. I don't want any part of our lives to be separate anymore. Please."

"Juice, this is your house. I will never put myself in the position I was in before, left without a place to be. I will have my place. Period."

He moved his hand from her hip to her face, threading his fingers into her hair. "What I did then—I'll never do that again. You need to trust me. Please trust me."

"I do trust you. I know we're solid. But I need to take care of myself, too. I won't be at anyone's mercy. If I give up my place and move into yours, I'm at your mercy. We need to be equals."

He sat up. He tried to think of a way to respond to that, but he had none. She wouldn't live with him? Ever? What about the future he imagined for them? He felt panicky.

She sat up, too, and put her hand on his back. "Hey. Doesn't mean I'm not with you. I am."

He supposed he looked like he felt. But then a thought occurred to him. Once he thought it, it seemed obvious, but he wasn't sure Frank would think so. "I have an idea. I don't know how you'll feel about it, but it's an idea." He turned his head to meet her eyes. "What if we bought a place together? Own it together?"

She considered him silently for several fraught seconds. "Okay, yeah."

"Yeah?"

She smiled. "Yes. Absolutely. Let's do it."

Grinning with relief and joy, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her soundly.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: **In case you missed it: CH 28 went up as usual about midnight Pacific time last night, but the email alert went out hours later. So if you follow this story and missed an email alert yesterday, then you should check to make sure you've read the previous chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 29:  
**"Ring of Fire," Social Distortion

Finding the right house in Charming, the right house for them both, was a challenge. Juice was handy and Frank was crafty, so they were willing to buy a fixer, if it had what Juice called the right "bones." Figuring out the bones was the problem.

All Frank knew was that she wanted at least one room that could be her studio, with good light and a decent view, and that she didn't want anything too big, or with too many nooks and crannies. At least one good closet, and a decent bathroom with a tub. Juice wanted a lot of space, a big garage, and a good, level yard.

A tall order in Charming. Especially since their ideas about size were exactly opposed.

Also: house-hunting turned out to be on the damn long list of things that freaked Frank out.

She hated every part of it. She couldn't stand the agents. She couldn't stand the way the descriptions were all such outrageous lies. She _really, really_ couldn't stand walking through houses people were living in. The apartments she'd rented had all been vacant when she'd seen them. When they went through a house for sale, Juice would open all the closets and cabinets, but Frank would see a closet full of someone's clothes, and she'd have to turn away, struck by the thought of how much she'd hate having people rifling through her things. The bathrooms were the worst; snooping around people's products and ointments and medications made her feel a little sick. She felt like she was way too far up in strangers' business.

So she left most of the houses they looked at with only the vaguest notion of what she'd seen, but a very strong sense of discomfort. She knew Juice was getting frustrated, but he worked hard to be patient with her. They'd seen just about every property in town even remotely like what they wanted, and they hadn't been close to making an offer.

The money part was a sticking point, too. Juice's top limit was a lot higher than Frank's top limit. It had taken negotiation and compromise to find a range they'd both be okay with. But the longer they looked without success, the closer they were getting to Juice's top limit.

The agent they were working with, a highly processed blonde named Loretta, had stopped calling Frank entirely, since Frank ignored the calls anyway. She worked with Juice. She also flirted outrageously with him, and Frank was beginning to consider a trip to the bank for some change.

But as December approached and they'd been looking for weeks with no luck, even after opening up the search to areas just outside Charming, Loretta wasn't even calling Juice so much anymore.

Juice was starting to make noises about her moving into his place again. Now he was suggesting that they find a way to put her on the deed. It wasn't a bad idea; it addressed her chief concern. But to Frank, that house would always be Juice's house. She needed a clean start.

One day in early December, Juice called Frank. She was at the shop and up to her elbows in new inventory, so she almost ignored the call, but he was just getting back from a run, so she unburied herself and answered.

"Hey, baby. Got a call from Loretta. You got a minute?"

She sighed. Great. A real estate talk. Those went _so_ well these days. She sat down at the desk and propped her head in her hand. "Yeah, go ahead."

"What are your thoughts about being in the country?"

"Uh, _what_?" The first thought that sprang to her head was that he'd gone off his goddamn nut. The country? Please.

"Okay, just—my first answer was no, too. But listen. This just came on the market. It's only 10 miles outside of town. 20 acres. House is fairly new but not huge. There's a small, established orchard off the house. Long view to the mountains. Short sale, price approved. It's pretty cheap, almost within your range, definitely within mine. I'm looking at the pictures, might be worth a trip to see it."

"You want to move to a _farm_? Juice, come on!"

"No, I want to find a place for us to live together. And baby, we are running out of options. We should at least just look at this. You've got the shop covered all day anyway. Let's take a look. It's warm today. At least it'll be a nice ride. Also: it's empty. The owners have already moved."

Frank closed her eyes and reminded herself how amazingly patient and loving Juice had been while she'd been refusing to consider every single house they'd seen. She sighed. "Okay. Set it up. Let me know when you're coming."

She could almost feel the heat of his smile through the phone. "Thank you, baby. I love you."

-oOo-

Of course it was perfect. Even the ride to it was perfect—not too far out of town, and through a nice part of the area. The house was on a country lane off the main road, canopied by trees, with a long, winding driveway. They were in Oswald territory out here. The thought that they could afford something like this gave Frank the vapors.

It was a big cottage with a wraparound porch. Four bedrooms, which was too many for Frank but just right for Juice. The house was all set on one floor, except for a loft in the back. A loft. With a huge window. Facing the orchard and the mountains in the distance.

Frank was ready to sign the papers as soon as she hit the top of those stairs.

All of the rooms were big and open, without a lot of dark corners. Frank didn't like dark corners. The closet in the master bedroom was a room of its own. Juice loved the three car detached garage and the big flagstone patio off the kitchen.

After they'd done the walkthrough, Juice pulled Frank off to talk privately on the patio. "Come on, baby. This is it, right? This has everything. It's the one. Right? Please say yes."

Frank was dazzled. "How can we afford this? It doesn't make sense."

He beamed that damn smile at her. "That means you like it, right?"

"Yeah. It's beautiful. But are you sure of the price?"

"Short sale—the owners can't keep up the payments. We'd be getting a deal."

Frank hated the thought of getting a deal on a house because of someone else's misfortune, but in California these days, that described practically all of the available houses. Juice had told her to think about it as helping someone get out from under a debt they couldn't handle.

She thought that was some pretty aggressive rationalization, but right now, looking at this house, she was okay with it.

She looked around at the space and scenery. The patio was huge, and she could already see Juice out here barbequing. It was a cozy, homey thought. But then a new thought occurred to her. "So, if we live out here, am I going to be drowning in Sons all the time?"

He grinned. "Not gonna lie, baby. It's a distinct possibility."

She huffed. Grabbing his belt loops to pull him close, she looked up at him and said, "Okay, yeah. Let's put an offer in or whatever."

He picked her up and swung her around. For real. He was such a sap.

-oOo-

On Christmas morning, Frank woke up alone in Juice's bed. She woke up thinking about Garrett and Oliver, and she felt lonely and sad, but she shoved all that back out of the way. She wasn't alone today. She had a family. She had a home.

Then she smelled pancakes and bacon and coffee. She got up, grabbed the black t-shirt he'd tossed to the floor last night, and pulled it on as she headed down the hall.

Juice was laying the table for breakfast as she came in. She walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist. "Merry Christmas." She kissed his bare back.

His hands still full of a plate of pancakes and a carafe of coffee, he looked over his shoulder and smiled down at her. "Merry Christmas, baby."

She sat down. "What time are we supposed to be over there?" They were spending the day with the Sons, at Jax and Tara's new house.

"'Round noon. We have"—he looked at the clock on the microwave—"about an hour before we have to go."

The cranberry pancakes were delicious; Frank ate one and a slice of bacon. "Thanks for breakfast—that was great. I'm glad one of us is a decent cook. That big kitchen will maybe get some use, then." They were moving into their new house in the middle of January, after all the inspections and whatever bureaucratic nonsense got done.

As she was standing at the sink, rinsing the dishes, Juice came up behind her. He pulled her loose hair back and kissed her neck. "Is it okay if I give you your present before we go? I want it to be just you and me."

That worked out better for her, too. What she had to give him would be pretty obvious once he saw the package. Better to keep it hidden until it was time for him to open it. "Yeah. I have yours, too, and I'd rather it just be us."

He helped her finish cleaning up breakfast. Then he led her to the living room. She pulled up short. She needed to get his. "Hold on. Can I go first?"

He smiled at her. "Sure, baby."

"Okay. Go sit down. I'll be right back. I have to go out to my car." She ran out, still wearing nothing but his t-shirt. When she came back in, he was standing at the window, grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing. I was just hoping for a stiff breeze."

"Perv." She handed him what was obviously a canvas, even though it was wrapped in red plaid paper. "This is for you. I know it's kind of lame, an artist giving her own art for a present, but, well . . . just open it."

He took the gift with one of his widest smiles. "I already know I love it."

"Don't be a sap, asshole. Just open it." Shaking his head, he did.

What she'd made him was a lot different from the kind of art she usually made. This was more of a multimedia piece, like a collage. The base was an acrylic painting fairly similar to the kind of abstract work she did, this one done in muted tones of red and purple. But over that, she'd laid cuttings from her first journal, the one she'd started in her sketchbook. The one he'd read. Every piece she'd cut was a passage about him.

She'd done a lot of ranting in that journal. She'd expressed a lot of pain. But she'd gone back and read it after her last session with Carla, and she noticed something. When she wrote about Juice, she only ever wrote about her love for him. The things she admired about him. The things she missed about him. The memories that kept her love flourishing even through all the hell. Without even fully thinking about it, she'd started cutting the journal up, pulling these musing about him into a pile of erratically cut pieces of paper. She added pieces of the sketches she'd done of him in the hospital, too. It had become a piece of art before she realized what she meant to do with it.

After she'd added the cuttings to the painting and glazed the whole piece, she'd added one more element. Over the whole canvas, with black paint, she'd brushed what she'd come to think of as their symbol, their two anarchy symbols entwined—the tat she'd designed for him, years ago now, and the image burned into the journal he'd given her. And now here.

On the back, she'd written the simple title she'd given it: "Love Is Right." He hadn't seen that yet, but it was all she could see as he examined the painting.

He was standing in his living room on Christmas Day, wearing nothing but a pair of navy SAMCRO sweatpants, and just staring at the canvas. Frank was getting more and more nervous the longer he went without saying anything. She was beginning to worry that it really _was_ lame to have thought it would be a good gift.

Finally, he turned his eyes to her. They were sparkling with tears. For a badass biker, he was very in tune with his sensitive side. "Frank, this is . . . it's beautiful. I don't know what to say. Thank you." Dropping the painting to his side, he pulled her close with his other arm and kissed her. She put her hands around his face and took the kiss deep, her tongue searching his mouth until he groaned and pulled back.

"Hold that thought. I have something for you first." He led her to the couch. "I need you to sit down and be quiet, though, okay?"

She sat and nodded. "Okay. I'll try."

"There is no try. I'll be right back." He leaned his new painting carefully against the wall and ran down the hall to his bedroom. He was back out in a matter of seconds, and he sat down next to her, without any gift that she could see.

"Okay, I have something to say first, so let me get it out. Okay?"

Her spidey senses were tingling, but she nodded.

He cleared his throat. "I still remember exactly every single detail about the night we met. I remember what you were wearing. I remember your pink hair with black tips. I remember every word you said to me, and how I had to keep hiding behind things because my dick kept getting hard." Frank snorted, and he stopped and gave her a warning look. Okay, okay, she'd keep quiet. She was getting a sense where this was headed, though.

"I know it sounds corny, but that was when I fell in love with you. Since that night, there hasn't been a single day—a single hour—when you weren't the biggest part of my thoughts. I've loved you like I've never loved anyone. I know I've sucked at being what you need. I know I've hurt you so much. I just didn't know how to love you the way you needed. It took me a long time to figure that out. I'm pretty sure I've got it now."

She smiled and nodded. She was pretty sure he had it, too.

"When Lilli and Opie got married, I told you I was ready when you were, that all you had to do was say the word. When—well, later—you asked me if that was still true, but it wasn't. We had some things to work out. _I_ had some things to work out. I had to figure out how to love you in a way that let you be strong. I had to figure out how to have what I wanted and live the life I live. I've figured that out. We've worked our stuff out. We're good. I feel it. I feel secure. I feel like I'm finally good for you. I know you're good for me."

He pulled a small leather box out of the pocket of his sweats. "So I'm asking you to say the word." He handed the box to her.

She knew her answer. She knew her answer as soon as he'd sat down, when she started to realize what he was doing. But she opened the box first and looked. _Holy fuck_. It was beautiful and so fucking perfect. White gold. A cut sapphire and a cut emerald, their settings twisted together. Intricate etching in the band itself. A little funky, with a vintage look about it.

She took the ring out and slid it on her finger. It fit. Perfectly.

She looked up at Juice, who was staring at her with complete focus. Before she said anything, she thought again. She wanted to be sure the answer she gave him was right.

She'd loved him almost as long as he said he'd loved her. But he'd hurt her like no one in her life had—even her brother. He'd had such power over her. She'd let him make her weak. She'd lost herself in him. She'd given herself over to him, and she'd had almost nothing left of herself. Was she strong now? Had she found the way to keep herself and still be with him?

"Yes. The word is yes."

She expected him to smile his nuclear smile, but he didn't. He asked, "Yeah? Just to make sure: I'm asking you to marry me. I want to marry you. You get that, right?"

She's the one who smiled. "I get it, asshole. I'm saying yes."

"Oh my God, baby. Oh my God. I love you so fucking much." He picked her up and put her on his lap. His eyes were moist. "Oh, baby. I am going to spend the rest of my life showing you you're the the most important person in the world. I swear it. I love you. Fuck, it hurts how much I love you."

She didn't want him to canonize her. She just wanted what they had, but closer, more permanent. "Juice. Just love me. Don't make it a mission. Just love me. Be with me. Stay with me. Just like we are. I don't need anything more than what we have right now."

"Jesus. That's easy. That's all I want to do." There it was, finally—that perfect, wide, brilliant smile that made her nethers twitch.

He pulled her close and stood up; she looped her legs around his hips and squeezed, bringing herself as close to him as she could. She could feel the ridges of his abdomen and chest against her, and his erection was nested tight against her core, only his sweats between them. She could feel her need for him moving in her blood.

"I hope you're carrying me off to have your way." She nibbled at the scar on his neck. She found it incredibly sexy, a mark of his strength and vulnerability all at once.

"I wasn't thinking about carrying you anywhere. I thought I'd have my way right here." He yanked on the t-shirt she was wearing, and she helped him slide it off her. Then he pulled himself out of his sweats and pressed against her core.

She gasped, feeling his hot, rigid tip pressed against her. She flexed to bring him more perfectly in line with her, and then she felt his fingers curling into her thighs as he pushed into her depths. She closed her eyes and moaned.

At her sound, he groaned. "Oh, fuck, baby. I'll never get over this. How good you feel, hot and tight. So fucking wet. You drive me crazy." He began thrusting into her, slow at first, pushing in, getting as deep as he could.

She had an idea. She leaned back a little and looked him in the eye, smiling. At her expression, he wrinkled his brow and asked, "What?" He stopped moving.

"You feel good. Don't let go, now." She arched backward, slowly, her legs tight around his hips, until she was hanging upside down. She put her hands on his legs.

In a quick motion, he let go of her ass and grabbed her hips instead. He spread his legs to balance them, groaning, "Jesus, Frank." She squeezed her legs and brought him deeper; he gasped and began moving again.

This was interesting. Everything about it was newly intense—the angle, the flex of Juice's hips against hers, his hands clutching her, the feel of him squeezed so tightly between her legs, the rush of blood to her head. She felt her orgasm building almost immediately. "Oh, fuck," she whispered, and then she started to moan.

Her moaning became a keening as he thrust into her. God, it felt so damn good. She felt the strength of his legs under her hands, his muscles rigid with effort. The position was making her dizzy, and she wasn't sure how long she could stay like this, but the dizziness was intensifying all her sensations and she didn't want to move. Then Juice started to grunt strenuously and yank her hips harder against his thrusts, and her orgasm opened up inside her. She cried out and grabbed at his calves, coming up with fistfuls of the sweats he was still mostly wearing.

"Oh, fuck. Oh fuck," Juice grunted. "Baby, I need you up here."

Moaning, still coming, the sensations rolling through her, she brought herself back up, her abdominal muscles clenching firmly as she did. He kept thrusting into the changing angle and penetration, and by the time she had her arms around his neck, she was cresting a wave of ecstasy so intense her brain was swirling like a shaken snow globe.

Panting heavily, Juice reeled back and landed on the couch, the impact driving his cock deep into her. Just as she thought she'd crested and was on her way down, that shock sent her over into a new peak, and she screamed.

She started to buck her hips wildly on him, seeking more, seeking everything. But Juice firmly pressed the flat of his hand low on her belly, holding her steady, taking control. When he did that, the pressure of his cock inside her intensified. At the same time, he leaned in and captured her right breast—the only one, for now, still pierced—with his mouth and sucked forcefully.

That was it. Then she knew nothing but sensation. The wet slide of his cock. The exquisite pressure of his hand. The perfect almost-pain of his mouth and teeth on her breast. She came again, hardest of all, her head thrown back, too overcome to scream.

When she was finally, finally, settling down, her body spent, Juice gasped, "Fuck, baby, I gotta go. I gotta go now." She raised her head and looked at him. She loved to watch him come.

He wrapped his hands around her hips and held her down hard on him as he thrust up in to her, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched, growling with the effort of his own release. When it was over, he relaxed against the couch, his head back, his eyes still closed. Frank lay against his heaving chest, her hand resting on her mark over his heart.

-oOo-

By the time they got to Jax and Tara's, most everyone else was already there, and it was the perfect kind of bedlam for Christmas. The mood was good—things around the club had been pretty quiet since the lockdown in October, and Frank was getting a taste of the way she'd heard things "usually" were around the Sons, when it was almost possible to forget the violence.

The men were sitting around, laughing and drinking. Abel and Thomas were running amok, tormenting all their uncles. Happy and Viv were there. Viv was pregnant and on some kind of bed rest or something. Hap had ensconced her in a chair and was hovering over her. Frank smiled, watching him dance attendance on his old lady.

The rest of the women, of course, were in the kitchen, readying the first phase of food. Where attitudes about the roles for men and women were concerned, the Sons weren't in any big rush to enter the 21st century. Luckily, no one ever wanted Frank to cook, so she spent most of her time watching what was going on, talking with Gemma and Tara, and possibly chopping the occasional vegetable.

She was chopping green peppers when Gemma grabbed her left hand. Frank and Juice had decided not to say anything today; they liked the idea of keeping it to themselves for just a little while. But Frank had worn the ring. She had no intention of ever taking it off. It wasn't a traditional engagement ring, so she didn't know whether anyone would really think twice about it.

She should have known better. She should have known that hawk-eyed Gemma would see and know.

"What you got here, darlin'?"

Frank smiled. "It's a ring."

"Don't be a smartass, missy." She nodded in the direction of the family room, where the men were watching TV. "He give this to you today?"

"He did."

Gemma huffed. "You gonna tell me?"

"Seems like I don't need to, Gem." She couldn't hold back her smile.

"Well, damn. Boy finally got his head clear of his ass." She turned and called across the room, lifting Frank's hand by the wrist. "Tara, you see this?"

And then the room was full of oohing, squealing women, Frank at the center. Apparently drawn by the commotion, Bobby came to the archway separating the family room from the kitchen; Gemma shook Frank's hand at him.

Bobby grinned. "Well, fuck me." He turned back to the men, and then that room was full of men laughing and back-slapping.

Somehow, Frank and Juice were pushed together as the men and women merged at about the point of the dining room. Everybody was hugging them. Even those Crow Eaters who had attained enough status to be invited to a family gathering like this were hugging them both. Frank hated that, but had better things to dwell on.

Then drinks were being distributed and they were being toasted. Juice held her close, his arm around her, his hand possessively gripping her hip. Frank was overwhelmed, but not in a scary way. She was understanding that these people _loved_ her. And she loved them—well, most of them. She belonged here.

That was pretty cool.

The fuss over, everyone went back to what they were doing. It was a good day—good food, good company, everyone getting along, no one getting drunk too fast. Frank took a plate of appetizers and fruit over to Viv, who accepted it was a smile. "Thanks, baby. Hey—would you sit with me a minute?"

They still didn't know each other very well. Since Viv had found out she was pregnant, she stayed home most of the time. Juice had told Frank that what had happened to Viv when she and Hap were grabbed had made being pregnant risky, so she was lying low. And Frank was still, inexplicably, a little intimidated by Viv.

Now Viv smiled at her and took her hand. "I just want to tell you I'm glad for you. And I was thinking we should probably get to know each other a little. I can't really go out these days, but I'd love it if you'd come over for lunch or something. There's usually a Prospect lurking around our house these days—I can send him to fetch take-out."

The thought gave Frank butterflies, which was stupid, and she needed to get over herself. "Yeah. That'd be cool."

Viv gave her hand a squeeze and let it go. "Good. Let's do it soon, before Hap locks me away until the baby comes." She looked across the room when she said it. Frank followed her eyes and saw Happy watching them. He nodded, a little smile on his face.

-oOo-

Dinner was over, the cleaning up had happened, and it was getting late. Things were winding down, but they weren't over yet, seemed like. Frank was tired and just about over the social interaction. She went out to the back deck for a moment's quiet and found Happy sitting alone on a wicker settee, smoking.

"Hey, little girl."

She sat down next to him. "Hey, Happy. I thought you went home."

"Nah. Vivian's laying down in the spare room. We'll go when she's ready."

Frank didn't pry, but she felt a little thread of worry, so she asked, "Happy, can I ask—is Viv okay?"

He was quiet for a beat, then he shrugged and said. "Hope so." Changing the subject, he said, "Didn't get a chance to say it before, but I'm glad for you. He's a good man."

"Yeah, he is." An impulse came on her. She grabbed it before she acted on it, and took a minute to think about it. She and Juice hadn't talked at all about actually getting married—what they would do, when they would do it— and the thought of doing anything traditional was just weird to her. But sitting here with Happy now, Frank had a powerful wish. She decided it was a good thing, a right thing. "Happy, can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"I don't know when we're doing this or anything, but I know I would like something very much, if you're okay with it." She paused, and he raised his eyebrows at her, waiting. "Would you, like, walk me down the aisle or whatever?"

He said nothing for a long, awkward time. He just looked at her. Then, finally, he asked, "What about your brother?"

Of course he wouldn't know about all that, and she definitely didn't want to get into it. She simply shook her head. And again, he looked steadily at her.

"I'd be honored, little girl."

She let out her held breath and grinned. "Thank you, Happy."

He nodded. "You know, we're having another girl."

"I heard. That's awesome. Girls rock." Leaning over to kiss his cheek, she whispered, "You're going to be a great dad, Happy. You've been practicing on me."


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: **This chapter completes the story. As is my custom, I'll have a more detailed note at the end.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. I just like to play with the boys.

* * *

**CHAPTER 30:  
**"Lifetime," Bouncing Souls

Juice pulled up the driveway. All three garage doors were open, and Frank was sitting on the garage floor with an open box in front of her. She waved at him as he brought the bike in and parked. The step ladder was set up behind her, in front of the shelving units Juice had built.

"Hey, baby." As he approached, he recognized the box as one of those Garrett had brought to the shop. "What's going on here?"

She shrugged. "I was hanging stuff on the walls, and I remembered that Garrett said there were pictures of my mom and dad in here. I thought it'd be nice to have some in the house. But now I'm just sad."

He sat down behind her, his legs on either side of her. Kissing her shoulder, he asked, "Can I see?"

At the top of the box was an old-fashioned accordion file. She took it out and opened it, pulling a small sheaf of papers out of one of the folds. They were pencil and charcoal sketches, mostly of birds and flowers. "My mom did these."

He flipped through them. "They're beautiful. I see where you got your talent."

She laughed softly. "Yeah." She reached back into the box and pulled out two more files like the first. "These are all her sketches." Setting them aside, she reached in again and brought out an old photo album, red leather, with her first and middle names, Frances Caroline, stamped in gold leaf in the bottom corner. "And this is me."

She opened the album on her lap, and Juice looked over her shoulder at it. These were pictures starting from Frank's first day on earth. Her father had obviously been the photographer, and he'd started taking pictures when she was still attached to her mother. In almost all of them, Frank was staring quietly at the camera, looking pissed, her blue eyes already vivid, though darker than they'd become.

Juice was deeply moved. "So beautiful, Frank. Look at you. Didn't you ever cry?"

She laughed again, and Juice could hear tears in her voice. He held her close. She said, "Well, I don't actually remember, but I must have. Maybe my dad just didn't take pictures when I was squalling."

He reached over and flipped slowly through the pages, glancing at pictures of her as a baby, a toddler, a little girl. The album ended when she was about three. "Are there more?"

"Yeah—my mom kept separate albums for me and Garrett. I think all of mine are here, so there are pictures until I'm . . . you know . . . sixteen." When her parents died.

He leaned his head against hers. "I want to bring them all inside and really look at them. I love this. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine." She lifted all the albums out and set them on the floor. Juice saw that the bottom of the box was lined with VHS tapes.

"Baby, what are those? Are those you, too?"

She leaned over and looked at the handwritten labels. "Yeah. Birthday parties, dance recitals, shit like that."

"Jesus. Oh, I want to see those. Can I?" He had a couple of old VCRs stored; he was something of a tech hoarder.

"No. No, I can't. I—Juice, I don't want to see them walking and talking. I can't. I know it's been a long time. Fuck, it'll be ten years this year. But I've never watched these since. I can't."

"I get it. It's okay. But we should put them inside anyway; the summer heat out here will ruin them."

"Yeah, okay." She started putting everything back in the box. Then she stopped and dropped her head.

Juice rubbed her back. "Aw, baby. I love you."

"Fuck. This is my family, and it's all just . . . gone. I lost everybody. I don't understand how that happened. I don't understand how Garrett would just—just go away from me. After everything. I try to make it make sense, and it just won't."

Juice knew where Garrett was. He'd continued keeping tabs on him after he'd taken his kid and his wife and moved away. He wasn't sure why he'd kept checking; it had simply seemed important to know. They were living in up north, near Eureka. Marnie's parents had sold their place in Charming and moved in next door to them. Garrett was working at a small independent publishing company; Marnie was staying home with Oliver. From what Juice could tell by hacking, they seemed to have settled into an uneventful, middle class life. Just what Marnie wanted.

He wondered if Garrett thought it was worth what he'd given up.

He'd tried to tell Frank what he knew, but she'd shut him down emphatically. She needed Garrett to be dead to her, and seeing her now, he understood why. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. "You have a family, Frank. I know it's not the same. It doesn't replace what you lost, but you have me. And we have the Sons."

She crossed her arms over his. "I know. I'm okay. I shouldn't have gotten this box down is all."

"Well, let's take them both in so the heat doesn't kill something important. We'll put them in a closet and leave them there until you're ready."

She nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

-oOo-

Getting Frank to plan a wedding was an exercise in patience—just like getting her to buy a house had been. She wasn't putting it off because she didn't want to do it. In some ways, she was as frustrated and impatient as he was. But she did not like rigmarole. It made her anxious, and then she skittered away.

Juice had finally suggested they go to the courthouse and be done with it, but she wanted a wedding. She just didn't want to do the things they needed to do to _have_ a wedding. She didn't want anything traditional—not that tall an order considering that she was marrying a biker. But then she'd asked Happy to walk her down the aisle—presupposing, then, that there would be an aisle they could walk down.

Juice knew his girl. He rolled with it, keeping his eye out for ideas that might catch her fancy, talking her down from whatever tree she'd run up, and waiting for her to work through it. They'd get married eventually. And in the meantime, he already had the life he wanted.

One evening in early spring, a couple of months after they'd moved into the house they owned together, they were sitting outside on the flagstone patio. Juice had used his new gas grill for the first time, and they'd had steaks and grilled vegetables for dinner. Now, he was stretched out on one of the new chaise lounges, beer in hand, and Frank was reclining on him, nestled between his legs, her back resting on his chest. She was reading; he was just taking in the evening. It was cozy, and he was happy. He looked out at their property: the little fruit orchard off to his left; a stretch of green field, which would turn to gold during the dry summer; mountains along the horizon in the distance. Damn, his life was good. When the hell had that happened?

"Baby. We should do it here. Right here."

She turned her head up and around to look at him. "What?"

"The wedding. Look. Our own fucking yard is perfect. We could put up one of those arch things in front of the orchard, set up chairs. It'd be great. And then we could just party here afterward. We could do it however we wanted. None of those planner people at the wedding places we've seen. Just whatever we want." He knew it was a great idea. It was the right idea. He tried to will Frank to see it.

She was quiet, lying on him, not really moving. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good." She sat up and looked around. "Yeah, let's do that." She turned to him and smiled.

He sat up and kissed her. "Baby, I need to fuck you right now."

Without a word, she put her book down and took off her glasses. She stood and turned to face him. She pulled her t-shirt off; she wasn't wearing a bra, and his fingers itched to touch her sweet, pert breasts with their so-damn-hot pierced nipples. He groaned.

Grinning, she opened her jeans and slid them down her legs until she could step out of them. Then her little black boyshorts followed the same path, and she was standing in front of him on their patio, naked. Shaved, pierced, and inked. Perfect. "Oh, baby, get back here right now."

She wagged her finger at him. "Not until you're naked, too."

He grinned and yanked his jeans and t-shirt off as fast as he could. The cool air on his swollen cock did nothing to calm him down. He slapped his thighs. "Right here."

She straddled him, her back to him, and settled right away on his cock. He took in a sharp breath and arched back as he slid into her wet, silky heat. When she was fully seated and he was deep inside her, he grabbed her hair and pulled her back to lie on his chest. She put her arms back and around his neck.

He had the most amazing view of her, her body exposed to him, her back slightly arched, pushing her breasts up. The air had cooled her, and her nipples had contracted into tight buds. He looked down along the path of her belly and saw the point in her bare folds where they were joined.

He was overcome and thrust up into her with a gasp. Then she began to rock her hips, moaning quietly with every flex. He put his hands on her and watched them as they caressed her body. He loved the look of her pale, faintly pink skin under his darker hands. He loved to see the twitch of her muscles as his light touch stimulated the nerves under her skin.

He realized he was panting; she had picked up the pace of her hips and was panting as well. He put his left hand between her thighs, sliding his fingers firmly over her hot, wet clit. At the same time, his other hand cupped her left breast, pinching at the puckered skin of her chilled nipple. She gasped and bucked at the multiple stimulation and cried out, "Fuck yeah! Don't stop!"

She was wild on him, arching and writhing and moaning enthusiastically. Every time he pinched her nipple or flicked firmly over her clit she almost screamed. He was trying to let her set the pace, let her ride him, only thrusting up into her when he just could not hold back. But he was losing control.

He grabbed the ring in her nipple and pulled gently, the way she liked. This was the breast that had been hurt, and he had some worry that he'd hurt her if he wasn't extra careful, but she seemingly had no physical or emotional residue from that terrible experience. She'd waited a long while to get it re-pierced, but she had done so a few weeks ago, and this, what they were doing right now, was why. So he pulled, and she tipped over into orgasm almost immediately, arching sharply up with a gasp.

Then she sat straight up, and he quickly let go of the ring. She put her hands on his thighs and bucked madly, her hips going at such a pace that he couldn't have kept up if he'd tried. He grabbed her hips and held on for the ride.

He felt her orgasm rolling over her as she clenched around his cock. Her fingers curled into the meat of his thighs and she screamed, pressing down on him as hard as she could. She stilled, her whole body rigid except for the spasms of her inner muscles. Those firm pulses sent him over, too. Shouting "Fuck! Fuck! Oh, _fuck_!" he grabbed her hips and moved her on him, his toes curling with the strength of his release.

He loved not having neighbors.

-oOo-

Once they decided to have the wedding at home, everything fell easily into place, and a few weeks later, they had a yard full of Sons. Under a white lattice arch, Juice waited. Desi was standing up with Frank; Chibs with Juice. Juice wore what he always wore, except a white button shirt instead of a t-shirt with his jeans and kutte. Frank wore a lemon yellow strapless 50s prom dress and brand-new pair of floral Docs. She'd recently cut bangs into her hair, and she had it up in a simple ponytail, with a daisy through the band. That was the extent of her flowers. He'd watched her dress earlier and found it hard to let her keep her clothes on.

She wasn't wearing her glasses. Juice kind of wished she was, but he had to admit it would make kissing her much easier without them, and he planned to do a lot of kissing her this day.

The aisle was short, but it was there, and at the far end of it, Happy held out his hand with a smile. Frank took it. Juice watched as Hap walked her down the aisle, hugged her at the end, and whispered something in her ear that made her grin and nod. Then he kissed the top of her head and gave her a swat on her bottom to send her forward.

Juice grabbed her hand and pulled her close. His mouth on her ear, he asked, "What'd he say to you?" She just shook her head with a little smile and squeezed his hand.

The ceremony itself was short and sweet. Toad Nelson officiated. He'd gotten ordained online expressly so that he could. So, to raucous laughter and applause, a huge guy with a foot-tall mohawk and ink up to his chin stood before them and uttered the words, "I now pronounce you biker and bitch—oh, sorry—_husband and wife_." He winked. Juice saw Frank's eyes flare at the word "bitch," but then she smiled and winked back. No wonder she'd had so much trouble making plans before; the Charming Wedding Palace had nobody like Toad available.

And then Juice was kissing his wife. He picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around him. He stood under that white arch, in their yard, surrounded by family, his woman, his wife, in his arms, and he kissed her like they were alone on the planet.

The wedding transitioned quickly to eating and partying. Hap left shortly after the first toast to be with Viv, who was in the hospital, on full bed rest in the last, scariest part of her pregnancy. When he said his goodbye, he pulled Juice into a back-slapping hug and said, "Good job, brother." Then he took Frank's head in his hands and leaned down to press his forehead to hers. He left without another word.

Juice watched that little exchange, thinking. He must have had a look on his face, because when Frank turned back to him, she cocked her head with a smile and asked, "What?"

"I'm trying to figure out how I got Happy Lowman as a father-in-law."

Frank just grinned.

Much later, the party had been rolling for a goodly while. The band had moved to slower songs, and the Sons were mostly full-on drunk and paired up with their old ladies or with the pieces of ass they brought with them. Gemma and Nero were dancing. So were Jax and Tara.

Thinking he wanted another dance with his wife, Juice hunted up Frank, who'd been flitting about most of the evening. He found her sitting alone at one of the far tables, looking around, a contented smile on her face.

"There you are, baby. I was starting to think you'd run off on me." He pulled up a chair so he could sit right next to her.

She laughed and leaned into him; he put his arms around her. "Nope. I'm just watching people. Look over there." She gestured to the right. Tig had Desi up against the garage. They were just talking, but even from this distance, it was clear that he was working his best moves. Desi's expression could best be described as tolerant.

But she wasn't pushing him off. Juice asked, "Any chance he's making headway?"

"It's hard to know with Desi. She plays a wide field, but usually she prefers one-on-one with women. Depends what he brings to the party, I guess."

"He really is a freak, though—like necrophilia freaky." Frank gave him a look. "I'm not joking. The dude has fucked corpses. And animals. He's not normal."

Frank shrugged, smiling. "Desi's a grownup. She's also a top. So that over there probably won't go anywhere, but if it does, Tig doesn't know what he's in for."

Juice laughed. "We know weird people."

"We _are_ weird people, doofus. That's why we're awesome."

"True enough." Nuzzling her neck and shoulder, he decided that he didn't really want to dance. Not back here, anyway. "Hey, let's go to bed. I want to get my wife naked and do dirty things to her."

"What about all this?" She swept her arm to indicate their guests and the mess their yard was now.

"They can take care of themselves, and I'll have the Prospects clean it up tomorrow." The Prospects would be hanging around a lot for the next week or so; Juice was taking Frank to New York City, and Joey and Pepboy were going to stay out here, taking care of Smeagol and just keeping an eye out. "Right now, I just want to be alone with my wife."

Frank turned to him. She put her hands around his face. "Hey. I love you. You stuck with me and waited until I had myself straightened out. You gave me the time I needed to figure us out, too. That means a lot. It got us here."

He took her hands in his and held them to his heart. "Baby, I told you a long time ago that I was never letting you go. You are everything to me. We fit. We're making a good life. It's you and me. Right?"

She nodded. "Always."

THE END

* * *

**A/N: **Not a big concluding note this time. Just some thanks to send out.

To Simone Santos especially. As I've mentioned in notes along the way, she's a spectacular writing partner and has more than once quelled some huge drama that was burgeoning in my head.

Thanks as well to the Freak Circle, one seriously awesome group of women and writers from across the globe. My favorite people.

Thank you to the readers who've stuck out Frank's story and enjoyed it. She's been a challenge to write since the very beginning, and I know she's been a challenge to read sometimes, too. But I love her like my own kid. She and I have a lot in common.

Thanks, too, for your forbearance as I got some things off my chest.

I'm not quite sure where my muse will take me next, but she has some ideas she's been lobbing at my head—one of which got a little bit of attention in this story.

See you in Charming!


End file.
